you hadn’t even finished unpacking when there was a knock on the screen door.

the august sun beat down on the sleepy street of your new neighborhood in derry, maine. everything felt too quiet, the kind of quiet that made you aware of every creak of the floorboards, every rustle of wind through the trees. a stack of half-unpacked boxes sat beside you in the hallway when the knock came again — softer this time, like whoever was out there wasn’t sure they wanted to be.

you opened the door and found him there: a boy about your age, maybe a little older, with soft blonde curls that fell just over his forehead and a relaxed posture that said he didn’t do things like this often.

he glanced up from where he’d been looking at his shoes. his eyes were light and.. kind? “uh, hey.”

“i’m victor,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “victor criss. i live right next door.”

you glanced over his shoulder. yep — the faded white house with the wraparound porch and overgrown hedges.

“my folks said i should come over and help you out. y'know, with unpacking. or carrying stuff. or... something,” he added, trailing off like he regretted knocking in the first place.