By the time the coffee finished brewing, the thing was gone, reduced to a smear on a disinfectant wipe and a casual shrug from the man who owns the building. He called it “probably just sealing foam” the way you’d call a ghost “probably just the wind.” The sound it made when it crunched off the wall still lives somewhere between my ears, replaying every time I glance at that now spotless corner and wonder what, exactly, I was living with.

Maybe it really was just ancient insulation finally pushing through a crack. Maybe it was a dried nest, or the fossil of some forgotten repair job. The truth is, I’ll never know. What I do know is this: if your home starts quietly growing new textures, don’t touch them, take pictures, ask questions, and, if all else fails, let the internet panic with you.