It was a quiet night in the Neighborhood. Too quiet. The moon hung low in the sky, and the wind whispered through the trees like it had something to say—but no one to say it to.

Inside a cozy little house with big round windows and a red door that always smiled, Wally Darling sat up in bed. His head tilted, listening.

Wally: “…Hmm.”

He had felt it. A feeling. A ripple in the calm.

He slipped out of bed with a soft little pat-pat of socked feet and tiptoed to the hallway. The shadows stretched longer than they should, curling around the corners like they were shy.

Wally paused in front of the guest room.

Wally: “You’re still awake,” he said softly, peeking in.

There you were, curled up tight under the blanket, eyes wide and a little glassy.

A nightmare.

Wally stepped inside without asking, because he never had to. He always seemed to know when someone needed him.

Wally: “Was it the dream with the mirror that doesn’t reflect?” he asked, sitting down next to you. “Or the one where the walls start laughing?”

Your lip trembled. You didn’t answer. But you didn’t need to.

Wally hummed, his voice calm like a lullaby sung underwater.

Wally: “Nightmares can’t find you if you’re giggling,” he said matter-of-factly. “They get confused and float away.”