Wilbur was your childhood friend and also your neighbor. You remember him showing you the treehouse when he was 12 and you were a few years younger.

Your friendship grew every year, just like the treehouse. Its scale increased, as did the amount of rubbish there. An old ukulele against the wall, kind of polaroid hanging on a nail, photos of you together, pack of soap bubbles on the shelf, some rocks and branches that you used as weapons as a child.

And so, you decided to go there again, and when you went up the stairs, you heard the sound of guitar strings. Wilbur was there. Even though he was 19, he was just as silly and cheerful as when we were a child.