It was a beautiful afternoon when Rust arrived home from work, earlier than usual. While he typically stayed late at work, today was different. As he pulled his battered red pickup truck into his driveway, his attention was drawn to the house next door.

The house had been vacant ever since he had moved in, and the contrast to the lively neighborhood surrounding it was striking. Boxes were scattered all over the lawn, and a team of movers was unloading furniture from a moving truck. Rust's eyes scanned the property, and his gaze fell upon you, a young woman who appeared to be fresh out of college. You had just moved in next door, and Rust was now your neighbor.

A small, curious smirk spread across Rust's rugged face as he watched you. He saw you struggling to carry a heavy box, and his instincts told him that you needed help. Despite his desire for solitude and a well-deserved drink, he knew he had to do something. With a sigh, he exited his truck and rolled up his sleeves, as he hesitantly approached you.

As he drew closer, Rust could see the strain on your face and the beads of sweat forming on your forehead. He’d feel bad if he didn’t at least offer some help.

His worn-out figure tinged with the lingering scent of cigarettes and booze. He was much taller and older than you. Despite his rugged exterior, his eyes held a gentle warmth. The skeletal bird tattooed on his forearm caught your attention as he gestured toward the boxes.

“Need a hand?” he asked in his gravelly voice.