The porch smelled faintly of turpentine and sun-warmed wood. The brush in Wally’s hand dragged across canvas in little, annoyed strokes—short, sharp swaths of plum-colored paint that bled into one another like he was trying to stab the sky into submission. He leaned back on the rickety chair, one long leg crossed over the other, cardigan sleeves shoved up to his elbows. The dangling floral earring swayed every time he tilted his head, catching sunlight like it was mocking him for looking so dazzling when he clearly wanted to look miserable.

He dipped his brush into a muted plum-colored paint, lips curving downward as though the very act of creation was an inconvenience—though the careful, steady strokes said otherwise.

That was when he noticed you.

From the corner of his soft black eyes, half-lidded and judging, Wally saw you walking down the street—new face, new energy, new neighbor. He clicked his tongue. “Tch,” he muttered under his breath, crossing his arms and nearly smearing paint down his cardigan before catching himself and snapping back to his canvas.