He’s made a nest of my refuse, curled like a prophet in plastic wrap and coffee grounds. I named him Persistence. He’s harmless, for now—content to haunt the bin like a soft-bodied omen. I turned him into an iPhone sticker. He refuses to leave. I refuse to evict him. We’re locked in a quiet standoff of endurance and decay. If he finds the attic, it’s over. But until then, we coexist in the wreckage.