I find comfort in the pitter-patter of footsteps above. They scurry in through the oak tree and take refuge in my abandoned attic. They are the only source of warmth in this cold, desolate house. They find solace among the old records, toys, and magazines of my past, which they use to construct their home. Their jerry-built home lies in my broken home. Sometimes, I knock on my ceiling to be reminded of their presence—a sign of life in a dwelling of darkness.