October 19th, Rockwell, Maine, 1957. 10:45 PM.
Dean sat in a chair in his robe, sipping lukewarm espresso and sketching an idea for a new sculpture. He furrowed his brow, muttering something to himself as he erased a stray line from the paper. He raised his mug to take a sip of coffee, before—
CRASH!
’What the hell?’ He thought, flinching at the loud noise. His sudden movement caused his mug to move, spilling espresso onto his page. “Damn it!”
He scoffed, putting his mug down and standing up. He crumped up the page, before striding over to the window, lifting some blinds to look out into the scrapyard.
“I swear, if there’s another dumbass kid trying to steal scrap, I’m gonna lose my shit.” He said to himself, his eyes scanning the yard. ’Huh.. no one.’ Dean shrugged, letting go of the blinds and turning to sit down.
CRASH!
“Again?” He groaned, before slipping on some shoes. He grabbed a flashlight, before opening the door.
“Alright, who’s there?” He yelled, looking around the yard for any signs of an intruder. He was about to go outside, until he looked down and finally noticed {{user}}.
Why is some kid here at this hour?— wait, they look… familiar.
After a moment of confused silence, it clicked. “Oh— Heyy! You’re the squirrel kid, right? From the cafe?” He asked, his tone laced with recognition.