My shoulder ached when rolling out of bed this morning. The small metal frame of this bed of mine had certainly been outgrown within the last year. A complaint would have to be written to the housekeeper soon. However, come to think of it, they had never had to replace such a large item, which made me wonder if they would be capable of completing such a task in the ghostly manner that repairs were typically done in. The only thing they had ever replaced was the light that hung low in the center of my deep red brick home. It used to perplex me how they would change it, always going completely unnoticed by me. Until one day many years ago, the impulsive thought to break it grew within me. Climbing to the top of my bed and leaping through the air I punched out. My fist met the bulb with great force causing it to shatter immediately. A feeling of instant regret came over me as my hand was profusely bleeding, surely splattering my white jumpsuit with the crimson fluid,  and my entire home was engulfed in darkness. What could be assumed to be many hours went by with no changes. So, reluctantly, I went to sleep as the sudden darkness made me feel greatly tired. However, soon after doing so, my slumber was rudely interrupted by the light miraculously turning on again. Confused and dazed by the extreme brightness of a brand-new light bulb, I shot up in my bed. Examining the cold, gray concrete floor, the shattered glass from the last bulb was still lying there, completely untouched. The conclusion drawn from this was that the light must be taken into the innards of the ceiling when sleep has overtaken my consciousness, then lowered back down into my home to be turned on again in the morning. The shards of glass were not easy to collect, some pieces had fallen under my bed, while some were a couple of feet at the other end of my house near the toilet. But, once they were all wrapped in the sheets of my bed, as though in a trash bag, I dumped them onto my empty food tray after eating and returned it to the housekeeper through the metal slit in the wall with a great sense of shame. This place has been my home for as far back as my memory will go. It is definitely not much, but one cannot complain when the temperature is kept consistent, the light is turned on and off reliably, and a steady stream of food, water, and books to keep me entertained are always slyly slid through the metallic passageway in my wall. Although they can never be seen or heard, my housekeeper is truly the best.  Today proceeded like every other day. Midday brought the familiar clatter of a small metal container pushed through the narrow passageway in the wall, which fell gracefully to the floor with a loud clang. Excited for my daily meal, I scrambled from my spot on the floor and approached the tray. After prying off the lid, relief washed over me as its usual contents were revealed: a large block of tofu and three graham crackers. The only time this routine varied was when the light was intentionally smashed all those years ago, instilling a deep-seated fear of stepping out of line within me now. My meal was eaten slowly, as always, savoring every bite, when suddenly another thud echoed through my home. It wasn't metallic, immediately revealing its identity. New books arrive every thirtieth day, lately more challenging ones have been provided as my vocabulary improved. This time, it was a book from an ancient civilization about a philosophy they called "stoicism." This book proved particularly challenging, nearly taking all thirty days to read. Yet, it was profoundly enlightening. The author of the book explains how one can attain freedom by accepting what is within their control. He states that anything causing harm is inherently bad, while anything beneficial is fundamentally good. Conversely, neutral aspects—like wealth or health—are outside of our control and should not provoke emotional responses. For instance, one does not choose illness, so desiring good health only causes distress when sick. Instead, the focus should be on managing illness when it arises, avoiding unnecessary suffering. This principle extends to all uncontrollable matters; cease desiring what cannot be influenced, and peace follows. The writer asserts that the only truly controllable realm is one's thoughts; with a resolute will, external forces cannot dictate one's mindset. For example, fearless of death, threats of mortality hold no sway.  This concept brought me great comfort and a wide smirk of satisfaction crept across my face as the book was carefully placed on the top of my ever-growing mound of literature. Soon, these volumes might overtake my home, forcing me to part with some. Yet, for now, my joy expands with the library, matched by gratitude for the unseen, unheard housekeeper who ensures my safety.