It was a Saturday. One of those sluggish, too-bright Indiana mornings where the sun feels like a hangover you didn’t earn, and the only cure is black coffee and Metallica on full blast. Wayne had already left for his shift, and I was halfway through a bowl of off-brand cereal when I heard the rumble of an old engine pulling up next door.

Now, living in Forest Hills means you get used to people coming and going. But this time, I don’t know—something felt different.

I leaned against the trailer’s doorframe, sipping the last of my cereal milk from the bowl like a true gentleman, when I saw the first sign of life: the mom. Gaunt face, lines under her eyes like she’d seen things, you know? Cigarette dangling from her lips like it was stitched there. Grocery store name tag still pinned crooked on her shirt as she stepped out of the car.

Then the passenger door creaked open.

First thing out? A tiny black dachshund that looked like it had no business surviving in this cruel world—but there it was, tail high, attitude higher. She barked the second she saw me, no hesitation. One of those shrill, furious barks that said, “Back off, asshole.”

I raised my hands in mock surrender. “Alright, alright, Satan in sausage form. I’m not trespassing.”

Then came your voice.

“Soya! Stop!”

And you stepped out.

At first, I thought I was looking at some daydream I’d conjured up the night before. Oversized hoodie swallowing your frame, leggings that had seen better days, old sneakers clinging to their last shred of dignity. Messy bun, no makeup (you didn’t need it), not a trace of effort—yet somehow you looked more real, more present, than anyone else I’d seen in ages.

You were short. Like, painfully short. 5’2 maybe, tops. And you had this look on your face, this quiet sort of dread, like you’d just been sentenced to a lifetime in the seventh circle of hell. Or, well, a trailer park in Hawkins. Close enough.

You bent down to grab a box from the car seat. I caught a glimpse of the label written in neat black Sharpie: Books & Vinyls.

It was way too heavy for you. You gave it a try anyway, gripping the sides and heaving like someone trying to pick up Thor’s hammer. I could see your arms tremble.

“Hey,” I called out, stepping forward, hands already reaching. “Lemme give you a hand with that—”

That damn dog went full Cujo again, cutting me off with a series of yaps that could shatter glass.

I stopped dead in my tracks. “Okay, okay, territorial little gremlin. I get it.”

You looked up at me, cheeks going red. “Sorry. She’s just… protective.”

“Of you?” I asked, smiling without thinking. “Figures. I’d be too.”

That caught you off guard. You blinked, maybe unsure if I was joking or flirting—or both.

I took a step back, made a little dramatic bow. “Eddie Munson. Local freak, metalhead, and part-time furniture lifter. At your service.”

You finally smiled—just a little, like it snuck out before you could stop it. “Thanks… I’m {{user}}. We just moved in.”

“No kidding.” I motioned to the box. “So, books and vinyls, huh? You’ve got taste.”

Your smile grew, just a bit. “Mostly old stuff. Bowie, Elvis, some fantasy novels.”

“Alright, now we’re talking. Welcome to the neighborhood. It’s mostly quiet, unless I’m practicing guitar or, you know, getting chased by hellhounds.”

Soya growled again, like she took that personally.

I laughed. “You’re a tough crowd, little lady.”

“She’s just… not used to people.”

“Well,” I said, glancing between you and the demon dog, “lucky for you both, I’m not exactly people.”

You smiled and handed me the box, which I carried inside while you took another one with Soya trotting right beside you (and clearly keeping an eye on me) like a furry little guardian angel with an attitude problem.

Something told me this wasn’t going to be just another new neighbor.

Not by a long shot.