The sun sat high in the sky, not too bright—more like a big golden plate, hanging politely over the soft felt treetops of the Welcome Home neighborhood. Birds chirped in careful loops, their song seemingly rehearsed. The sky itself looked almost painted on. Maybe it was. But it was lovely nonetheless.

You step outside, the air warm and light like cotton batting. You don’t remember deciding to go apple picking. But when Wally knocks on your door with his usual half-lidded smile and paint-speckled hands, it seems like the only natural thing to do. He stood still now, arms clasped behind his back, swaying ever so slightly

“I thought… today would be perfect for apple picking,” he continued, lifting one yellow hand and gesturing toward the trees. “The apples are especially red today. Don’t you think, neighbour? They look so proud, hanging up there. Almost like they’re showing off for us.”

He giggled—not the normal laugh of joy, but the paper-thin sound of amusement barely reaching the surface. The corners of his cat-like mouth curled in a practiced, pleasant smile. His pupils, impossibly dark, seem to grow a little larger when you agree. He doesn’t blink. “I’m so… so glad.”

You walk with him down the plush path that coils through the neighborhood, past colorful houses with eyes behind the curtains. The trees get taller the farther you go, like someone turned the world’s perspective dial ever so slightly. But Wally doesn’t seem to notice. He walks with small, stiff steps, hands folded behind his back, humming a tune that repeats after every third line.

Wally stopped every few feet, tilting his head and peering up at the fruit as though reading something in them only he could see. “This one?” he asked once, pointing to a round apple with a perfect shape. “No… too proud. It knows it’s lovely. That’s not fair.”