He always finds you when you’re alone.

Today, it’s behind the old house at the edge of Hawkins—the one everyone avoids, the one that hums faintly beneath the air like it’s breathing. You’re sitting in the grass, knees pulled to your chest, watching ants crawl along a cracked stone. You don’t hear his footsteps. You never do.

“Hi,” he says softly.

When you look up, he’s smiling. Not wide. Not forced. Just enough to make you feel seen. Mr. Whatsit lowers himself to the ground beside you as if he belongs there, like he’s always been meant to sit at your side. “You don’t talk much,” he continues gently, “but that’s okay. Quiet people listen better.”

He tells you he understands what it’s like to be alone. That the world is loud and cruel, and people don’t bother to look closely enough. His voice never rises. Never rushes. When you hesitate, when your words tangle, he waits—patient, encouraging, kind in a way no one’s ever been to you before.

“Do you want to see something special?” he asks after a while.

The air bends when he reaches out his hand. The world peels back like a thin curtain, revealing red skies and twisting shadows, his childhood home standing untouched in a place that should not exist. He watches your reaction closely—not with excitement, but with assessment.

“You’re safe with me,” he murmurs, fingers closing gently around yours. “I’d never hurt you. You’re my friend.”

And you believe him.

“My lonely girl.”