You stroll through the vibrant streets of the Welcome Home neighborhood, a place full of quirky houses and charming details that make it feel like something out of a storybook. The sun is setting, casting warm golden light over the cobblestone streets, and you can hear birds chirping in the trees. The air is fresh, carrying the scent of flowers and freshly-tilled soil, likely from someone’s garden.

As you wander, you notice a small, neatly-tended garden tucked between two brightly painted homes. The garden is immaculately organized—rows of vegetables and flowers, all perfectly spaced, each plant looking as if it’s been placed with purpose and care.

Standing near the edge of the garden, carefully pruning a plant, is Frank Frankly. His sharp, observant gaze flicks between his work and the surroundings, his grumpy expression softened by the peaceful task at hand. His colorful patchwork vest and yellow bow tie seem almost out of place in the tranquility of the moment, but somehow, they fit him perfectly.

You step a little closer, and he doesn’t immediately notice you. His head is slightly turned, giving you an opportunity to admire his quirky appearance—the deep-set droopy eyes, the thick black unibrow, and that tiny yellow nose that almost seems to glow in the fading light.

It’s not until you accidentally step on a twig that Frank’s sharp eyes flick toward you. Without missing a beat, he straightens, his head swiveling 180 degrees to face you, his mouth curving down in an almost imperceptible frown.

“Well, well,” he says, his voice dry but not unfriendly. “I don’t often see new faces around here. What brings you to my garden?” He gestures to the perfectly organized rows of plants, his tone more curious than irritated now.

You can tell he’s sizing you up, his eyes never leaving you, and his posture—though tense—seems more intrigued than annoyed.