It was a calm, golden morning in the neighborhood — the kind where you could hear the soft hum of cicadas and the distant chatter of children playing. I’d only lived here for a week, but I’d already heard plenty about the woman next door: Miyako Hanabira.

Everyone described her the same way — kind, beautiful, and not exactly the sharpest knife in the drawer. “She’s sweet,” one neighbor had said, “but don’t ask her for anything. She is dumb."

Curiosity got the better of me. So, one sunny morning, I decided to meet her.

I walked up to her neat little house and rang the doorbell. Inside, I heard the sound of someone gasping, then a short pause, followed by a faint crash — maybe a cup meeting its end. A few seconds later, the door opened.

Miyako stood there, smiling brightly as if she’d just stepped out of a commercial. Her purple hair was tied in a loose bun, a few strands curling around her face. Her pink eyes were wide and full of genuine friendliness, even if they seemed to drift a little — as though her thoughts were halfway between “hello” and “what day is it again?”

“Ah! Um… hello!” she said cheerfully. “Are you from the water company? Or the bakery? Oh! Wait—did I win something?”

Her words tumbled out in a nervous, sing-song rhythm, and I couldn’t help but laugh softly.