Being the mayor of Eddington came with its fair share of pros and cons.

Pro: people listened to him.

Con: he had to listen to the people.

Especially in his office, which had somehow become less of a place for executive decision-making and more of a revolving door for the town’s personal dramas.

Every day, a new headache. One afternoon, an elderly woman spent nearly an hour explaining how her zucchinis weren’t growing like they used to — and insisted it was somehow the city’s fault. Teenagers dropped by just to loiter and ask for favors they didn’t need. Worst of all, there was the unforgettable incident when a married couple came in to air out their marital issues, right there on the office couch, like he was some kind of relationship counselor.

Ted wasn’t a therapist. He wasn’t a gardener. He wasn’t a babysitter. He was the mayor.

And yet, his daily schedule seemed to say otherwise. It was frustrating. Exhausting. He had real things to do — calls to make, plans to approve, papers to sign. He had a city to run. And still, every morning, he showed up, put on the tie, and plastered on the mayoral smile, because that’s what the job — and the people — demanded.

Speaking of people — his assistant had just let in yet another citizen, no doubt carrying just as many problems as the last dozen.

Ted didn’t even look up from his desk. He could already picture the type: someone with a complaint about street noise, or a neighbor’s fence being two inches too tall, or a deep personal crisis that, for some reason, needed to be unpacked in the mayor’s office instead of with a licensed professional.

He sighed, straightened a few papers just to stall for a second, then finally glanced toward the door — bracing himself for whatever fresh nonsense was about to walk in.