Staying in an abandoned brick house infested with mice means sleepless nights and skittering symphonies. Their tiny claws scratch walls like whispered secrets; droppings pepper floors like morbid confetti. You barricade food, seal cracks, yet they persist—bold, curious, uninvited roommates. The scent of damp plaster and rodent musk clings to your clothes. Moonlight through broken panes casts ghostly shapes where curtains once hung. Still, there’s charm in decay—the stoic brick, the stubborn hearth. You learn to coexist, to laugh at fear. It’s not a home, but it’s shelter. And sometimes, survival smells like mildew… and mouse pee.
