We didn’t leave. That’s the first thing I need you to understand. We told them we did. Packed every box like it meant something. Told everyone that we called the movers and set a date. We pretended everything was fine, even gave the landlord a set of keys, ones we’d had copied months ago, back when things first started to unravel. We left a note on the counter, folded in half. It said: Thank you for everything. For letting us call this place home. We hope the next family finds what we found here. Wishing you the best. It was polite. Respectful. Almost honest. But it wasn’t true. We never left. Tina joked about the attic the day we got the notice to vacate. Said, “Nobody checks the attic. Not in houses like this.” She said it between tears, but there was a bite in her voice. A kind of dare. I laughed. At first, I thought she was just angry, or tired, we both were. But the more we talked about it, the more it stopped sounding like a joke.

The attic in this place is nothing, just a crawlspace slapped together with splinters, dust and bugs. Low ceiling. No floor, just beams and insulation clumped like animal fur. It creaks when you breathe. There’s no standing room, no sitting upright. You live bent, or sideways, or pressed against the roof like you're part of the house itself. But at least it was ours and that’s what mattered. No rent. No mortgage. No lights. Just the two of us, a blanket between the joists, a few things we didn’t sell or throw away. Tina’s winter coat, my father’s old thermos. A little solar lantern we keep turned low. You'd think it’d feel like hiding. But it doesn’t. It feels like refusing to let go and I’m proud of us for that. We laid down the last blanket we owned. Rolled it twice for padding. Our bed. We made a little shelf out of a milk crate. One spoon. One mug. She still hums when she washes it out, like we’re camping or something. Like this is temporary. But it’s been twenty-one days. The new family moved in two Thursday’s ago. Young couple. Three kids. Tina listens through the floor boards. She barely blinks. She mouths their names to herself, memorizing them like lines in a play. “They don’t deserve it,” she whispered to me last night. “This house. They don’t feel it the way we did.” I didn’t answer. I just watched her shadow shake across the rafters. 

It’s hard to believe it’s been a year. The fear faded somewhere in the second month. You’d think living in someone else's ceiling, excuse me, living in our ceiling with someone else living down below, would keep you in a state of panic, but no. You get used to the routine. The quiet. The creaks that aren't yours. By the third month, I wasn’t afraid. Just… alert. That month was the hardest. They got a dog. A big one. Maybe we’d been moving too much at night. Maybe it caught our scent. Either way, it started barking at the vents. Scratching at corners. Waiting at the baby’s door like it knew something was wrong, like it knew we were right above. Our attic door opens into the ceiling of their nursery. Tina stopped sleeping. I could see it in her face even in the dark, her guilt. I felt it too. We didn’t want to hurt anyone. But this was our home. We’d been pushed out of everything else. I did what had to be done. They told the kids the dog ran away. They cried for a few days. Drew pictures of it. Taped them to the fridge. Then the fish came to replace it. Two of them, bright orange with no names. Harmless little things. Not the type to blow our cover.

We’ve stayed out of sight. Always. But we’ve watched over them, in our own way. Singing to the little ones when they had a hard time falling asleep, tucking them in when they would kick off their blankets. It almost feels like they’ve become our own little family in some ways. Which makes me sad. It’s almost time for their lease renewal. Strange thing to admit, but I think I’ll miss them if they go. I hope they don’t. They don’t know it, but they’ve been a kind of friend to us, even if they don’t know anything about the friendship we’ve created. Like living above a show you’ve grown to love. We’ve heard every fight, every birthday, every lullaby. They’ve lived their lives and we’ve lived inside the margins of it. We don’t talk about our family much anymore. I don’t know what happened after we disappeared. Maybe they held a service. Maybe they didn’t. I picture flowers, maybe a photo of us in the foyer of some church I’ve never stepped foot in. I wonder who cried. I miss them. I do. But this, this here, with Tina in the dark and our little family below… This is home.

I saw him at the park today, pushing a little girl on the swing. It had been such a long time since we had seen each other I almost couldn’t believe it. His rich but familiar laugh, although deeper, carried across the air, and for a moment, I was twelve again, sitting next to him on his parents’ porch, promising we’d be best friends forever. He looked older now, of course, with lines around his eyes, and a small bit of gray in his hair, but the creases around his smile… It was still him.

I thought about saying something, about calling his name, but my voice caught in my throat. Then, as if he could feel my stare, he turned. Our eyes met, and I saw a flicker of recognition, I smiled at him and nearly waved, but it only lasted a second. He looked right through me before turning and smiling back at his little girl as she called for him.

I stayed a little while longer, watching them laugh and play, before walking home alone. The silence of my apartment swallowed me as I stepped inside, and I realized I’d forgotten how long it had been since someone said my name.

It wasn't the news I'd be in a wheelchair for the rest of my life that upset me so much. In fact, I handled that pretty well. No, it was when they told me my wife and little boy wouldn't be going home with me that I bought the shotgun.

She lit a single candle on the cupcake. Red velvet, her mother’s favorite. The frosting smudged her pinky, and as she wiped away a tear, she licked it off, savoring the flavor. The phone rested on the table, speaker on. She watched the flame dance and the tendrils of smoke twist upward, vanishing into the shadows of her empty home. Her mother didn’t answer, but her voicemail came on. It began with a laugh, goofy and kind: "How do you work this thing?" A younger voice chimed in, teasing: "Mom, you're on already, its recording, Silly." Her mother laughed again, the sound of it like a hug she could no longer feel. "It is? Sorry, I can’t come to the—" The beep cut her short.

"Happy birthday, Mom," she whispered, biting her lip until it stung. She hung up but dialed again, desperate to hear the laughter. "How do you work this thing?" "Mom, you're on already..." The same words. The same warmth. The same absence. Her voice cracked as she whispered, "I miss you so much, Mama."

The motel room stank of mildew, and cigarette smoke had seeped so deeply into the walls it felt like it was apart of them. A single bulb flickered above the bed, he didn't like it though, it revealed far more than the frayed wall paper. He sat slouched on the mattress, staring down at his phone. The screen glowed with a cold display, showing him how many times they didn't answer. He hadn’t left a voicemail. What would he say? Merry Christmas? Daddy loves you? I miss you? He rubbed his bloodshot eyes and walked toward the window. Snowflakes swirled outside, the parking lot lamp painting them gold against the night. Somewhere out there, his kids were sitting around a tree, opening gifts from another man who’d taken his place. He imagined their giggles, the soft shuffle of wrapping paper—Would they forget him all together? Turning back toward the room, his eyes landed on the counter by the bed. Among the takeout containers and crushed beer cans, the needle gleamed like an accusation. His stomach twisted. He could feel the pull of it, promising oblivion, a reprieve from the memories and their absence.