For months, I felt watched and heard noises upstairs, though I live alone. One day I came home to my living room rearranged. Terrified, I called the police, but they found nothing — until an officer asked if I knew about my attic. I didn’t. They found a ladder and climbed up. I followed and saw a small mattress, blankets, food wrappers, and a diary. Someone had been living in my attic.
The police took the items and suggested I stay elsewhere. I slept at my cousin Thea’s, uneasy and unable to think clearly. The mattress had been warm — whoever lived there had just left.
Back home, I installed new locks, cameras, and motion detectors. Nothing happened… until I found a folded note on my pillow: *“I’m sorry. I never meant to scare you.”* No security footage, no sign of how it was left.
I moved out. Months later, I saw an article about a homeless youth shelter and recognized a man in the background photo — the same face I remembered from the diary drawings. I contacted the shelter and learned his name was Miles. He replied.
He apologized, remembering my chipped blue mug. We exchanged emails. He explained he had snuck in years ago when the house was empty and stayed out of fear of the outside world, listening to me but never interacting.
We eventually met at the shelter where he now works helping others. He thanked me for living my life openly — it gave him hope. Before I left, he gave me a new blue mug.
I realized fear doesn’t always mean danger, and sometimes the people we fear just need a safe place.