You know that feeling when you cross a line? Not a huge, universe-ending kind of line, but a smaller one. A sneaky one. The kind that leaves a bitter taste in your mouth, even when you’re technically, legally, *fine*. Because sometimes, “legally fine” still feels like you’ve scraped some gunk off the bottom of the ethical barrel, and now you’re covered in it. That’s where I am right now. Sitting here at 2 AM, the blue light of my phone a tiny spotlight on my absolute trash decision. It was this house – a beautiful place, honestly. Victorian-era, huge bay windows, a little secret garden out back. Perfect for the kind of buyers who wanted charm but were on a tight budget. (Which, let’s be real, is everyone these days, including me, scrambling for these freelance gigs, no health insurance, wondering if I’ll ever own anything more substantial than my beat-up laptop.) The problem? The previous owner had… expired there. Peacefully, in his sleep, apparently. No foul play, no grisly scene. Just a man, in his favorite armchair, gone. And here’s the thing – in our state, you don't *have* to disclose a natural death. Unless you’re asked directly. Which, you know, most people don’t think to ask. So, I had these buyers – a young couple, maybe a few years older than me, but definitely the type who had their shit together in a way I could only dream of. They were desperate. Lost out on three bids already, getting priced out of everything, eyes wide with that mix of hope and sheer exhaustion. They LOVED the house. Walked through it twice, talking about where they’d put their books, how the light was perfect for their plants. And I kept thinking about that armchair, right there in the living room, probably exactly where he’d been. A little voice, a tiny, annoying mosquito buzzing in my ear, said, “Tell them.” But then I remembered my last commission check, how much I needed this sale, how they probably wouldn't even care about a natural death anyway. (Would they? Some people get SO weird about "death houses." Ghosts, bad vibes, whatever.) And if they *did* care, I’d lose the sale. So I didn’t. I smiled, I nodded, I talked up the original woodwork and the proximity to good coffee shops. I watched them sign the papers, their faces glowing with relief and excitement. And my stomach just… sank. Like I’d swallowed a cold stone. I kept telling myself, *it’s fine, it’s legal, it was a peaceful death, nobody got hurt*. But it doesn’t feel fine. It feels like I took advantage of their desperation, traded on their innocent belief that I was being completely upfront. Because they were good people. And I just… wasn't. For a commission that’ll probably barely cover my rent for two months, maybe three if I stretch it. It’s infuriating. Mostly at myself, I guess. For being so… pliable. For letting the hunger for a paycheck override the little bit of integrity I thought I still had. And now I’m here, wide awake, picturing them moving their boxes into that beautiful house, completely oblivious, and I just want to… scream into a pillow. Or maybe just disappear for a while. Yeah. That sounds about right.