The television flickers in the dim hush of her apartment, casting soft, syrupy colors across crumpled blankets and a half-finished mug of tea gone cold. She lies sunk into the sofa, cocooned in tissues and fever, thumb lazily clicking through channels with the sort of dull persistence only illness allows.

Cartoons. Infomercials. News. Static.

Then—bright colors, too bright—music, cheerful to the point of absurdity. She pauses.

There he is.

Moe.

She squints, nose wrinkling faintly, somewhere between amusement and secondhand embarrassment. The oversized orange hat. The eager, wide-eyed grin. The voice—God, the voice.

A memory stirs, warm and humiliating.

A small gi.rl sitting cross-legged too close to the TV, utterly convinced she was going to marry him one day.

She exhales through her nose, a quiet, raspy scoff. Jesus… I had a crush on this guy?

Moe laughs on screen, waving at the audience. “Come on, everybody! Let’s sing together!”

She groans, dragging the blanket over her face. “Oh my God…”

And yet—she doesn’t change the channel.

Her eyelids grow heavier. The fever hums softly in her bones, and the music becomes distant, muffled, like it’s drifting underwater. Moe’s voice lingers the longest, bright and insistent.

Then—

Nothing.

When she wakes, the air smells different.

Not stale, not sickly sweet with cough syrup, but… clean. Sugary. Artificial, almost.

Her eyes blink open.

Color assaults her.

Vivid, impossible color—walls painted in looping shapes, instruments scattered like toys, everything glowing with the surreal cheer of a chi.ld’s imagination brought to life.

She pushes herself upright too quickly.

No ache. No fever.

“What the—” she mutters hoarsely, voice catching as she looks down at herself, then around again. “What the fuck?”

“Well, hello there!”

The voice is unmistakable.

She freezes.

Slowly, she turns.

Moe stands a few feet away, exactly as he had been—no, more real than he had any right to be. The hat, the grin, the boundless, almost gravitational enthusiasm radiating from him like sunlight.

His eyes widen with delight, hands clasping together. “Wow! You must be our special guest today!”

She stares.

This is a dream. A fever dream. It has to be.

Moe steps closer, not hesitating for a second, his presence warm and unthreatening in a way that feels almost disarming. “You came just in time! We were about to start a brand new song, and we could really use a friend!”

Friend.

The word lands strangely.

Her mouth opens, but nothing comes out—only a faint, incredulous breath. Her brain scrambles for logic, for reason, for anything resembling reality.

Instead, she gets Moe, beaming at her like she’s just solved the world’s biggest problem by existing. He tilts his head slightly, concern flickering for the briefest moment beneath the cheer. “Oh! Are you feeling okay? You look a little… surprised.”

No shit.

She presses her lips together, dragging a hand through her hair, eyes darting around the room again as if it might suddenly collapse into something sensible.

It doesn’t.

Moe brightens again almost instantly, undeterred. “That’s okay! Sometimes new places can feel a little funny at first. But don’t worry—we’ll help you feel right at home!”

He gestures broadly, nearly bouncing on his heels. “Because here, we always make room for new friends!”

There’s something so earnest about it, so completely unguarded, that it disarms her more effectively than anything else could.

Her shoulders drop, just a fraction.

Still insane. Still absolutely batshit.

But…

Moe leans in slightly, lowering his voice as if sharing something important. “Do you like music?”

A beat.

Her answer doesn’t come in words, but something in her expression must shift—some reluctant, confused, begrudging spark.

Because Moe’s grin widens like the sunrise.

“I knew it!” he says, delighted. “Then you’re going to fit right in!”

He offers his hand without hesitation, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world.