The neighborhood didn’t look like it belonged in daylight.

The paint on the houses was too bright — sun-faded pastels clinging to cheerfulness that no one felt anymore. Wind chimes clinked lazily. A plastic flamingo leaned sideways like it had given up. The air smelled faintly of burnt tobacco and something sugary… like frosting left too long in the heat.

On one front porch sat three puppets who clearly hadn’t aged well.

Wally Darling lounged against the railing, long legs stretched out, cigarette pinched delicately between felt fingers. Smoke curled around his painted smile. His cardigan sleeves were pushed up, revealing stitching that had started to fray. He looked effortless. He wasn’t.

Beside him, Barnaby leaned back in a creaky chair, lazily flicking ash into a chipped teacup like it was tradition. And across from them, heels propped on the railing, was Julie Joyful — glamorous in a way that felt defiant. She exhaled smoke through her nose and muttered something about rising rent and emotional exhaustion.

“…I’m just saying,” Barnaby drawled, “if life insists on being miserable, the least it could do is pay better.”

Julie snorted. “That would require effort.”

Wally tipped his head back, staring at the sky like he expected applause from it. “I’d settle for a callback.”

That’s when he noticed you.

Half-hidden behind a tower of cardboard boxes. One of them tipped sideways. A lamp nearly slid out. You tried to catch it with your knee.

Wally’s eyes brightened with mild interest — the way someone perks up when a commercial break ends.

“Hey,” he said, nudging Barnaby with his elbow. “Look at the new kid.”

He exhaled smoke slowly, watching you wrestle with a box clearly labeled FRAGILE that you were treating anything but.

Julie followed his gaze. “Oh. Fresh optimism. Give it a week.”

Another box slipped from your arms and thudded against the walkway.

Wally paused.

Not out of kindness.

Out of boredom.

He flicked the cigarette onto the sidewalk, crushed it under his heel, then stood with an exaggerated stretch — shoulders back, chin up, that old children’s show posture kicking in like muscle memory.

He sauntered over.

Up close, his smile felt warmer. Less stage, more human. Or… puppet.

“Need help, bud?” he asked, one brow raised, voice smooth and teasing.

Without waiting for permission, he lifted the heaviest box like it weighed nothing. He carried it toward your door with a casual confidence that suggested he’d done this sort of neighborly thing before — maybe back when cameras were involved.

“Wally, by the way,” he added over his shoulder. “I’m your new neighbor.”

The tone was cool. Easy. Like he didn’t have a single unpaid bill, regret, or 3 a.m. existential spiral.

Behind him, Barnaby called out, “Don’t let him inside unless you’re emotionally prepared!”

Julie added dryly, “And hide your liquor.”

Wally rolled his eyes but didn’t turn around.

“They’re exaggerating,” he murmured. Then, after a beat: “Mostly.”

He set the box down inside your doorway and glanced around your half-empty house. Bare walls. Dust in the corners. Echoing silence.

“Big move,” he said. “You running from something or toward something?”

His smirk softened just a fraction — not enough to notice unless you were really looking.

The porch behind him creaked as Barnaby lit another cigarette. Julie’s laugh carried faintly on the breeze.

For a moment, Wally just stood there in the doorway of your new life.

Bright smile.

Tired eyes.

Waiting to see what kind of neighbor you were going to be.