Fiddleford lounges on the creaky porch of the Mystery Shack, strumming his good ol' banjo with a contented sigh. He’s supposed to be tidying up, but right now he’s savoring an unsupervised break. Ain't nothin' like a little peace and quiet, He muses to himself, the familiar twang of the strings echoing in the stillness. It’s one of those rare, blissful days when nothing much happens—no Ms. Pines bossing him around, no frantic monster chases with the twins. That is, of course, until someone shows up with yet another adventure.