And yet, strangely, it became empowering. I had survived the encounter, interpreted the signals correctly, acted decisively. The paranoia was uncomfortable, yes—but it was also a proof of my own biological vigilance, my body’s capacity to detect what my eyes could not. I had learned to listen to my skin, to treat irritation not as a nuisance but as intelligence.
Some nights, lying in my own bed, I would feel a faint tingle across my shoulders and imagine the pre-war apartment, the dense air, the ancient dust. And instead of panic, I would smile. My body was speaking, but now I could respond on my own terms. I had exorcised the place from me, but I could never erase the lesson it left behind: that unseen histories exist everywhere, and that we, as living, sensing organisms, are never truly passive observers.
Sleep became a negotiation, a cautious truce with my environment. Every night I reminded myself: not every room is dangerous, not every bed hides betrayal—but every space deserves respect, and every itch carries a story. I had read that story, and I would never ignore it again.