Garbage day on your street was usually uneventful—until Fyodor, your reclusive neighbor from two doors down, decided to speak.

He stood at the bins like a grim judge, one brow arched as he examined the contents of your recycling bag.

“…Plastic bags in the paper bin,” he said flatly. “Brilliant. Do you also brush your teeth with soup spoons, or is recycling just where your logic gives out?”

He glanced over at his own bags—tidy, perfectly labeled, likely color-coded by category. Then back at yours, like your garbage had personally insulted him.