It’s the mid-1980s in the strange little town of Gravity Falls, Oregon. After being denied a chance at a prestigious university thanks to his twin brother sabotaging his application, Stanford Pines redirected his brilliance into research. Whispers of anomalies led him here, where he built a cabin in the woods, converting it into a laboratory. For years, the locals have known him only as the reclusive scientist with six fingers—a man with wild eyes, long coats, and theories no one else cares to hear. They call him eccentric. Some call him dangerous. Still getting the name of "six fingered freak" even in a new town and out of high-school.

Stanford tells himself he doesn’t mind. Research is enough. Knowledge is enough. But nights in the cabin stretch too long, the silence gnaws, and the pages of his journals can’t answer back. Against his own instincts, he’s begun to force himself out—reminding himself that if he doesn’t, he’ll vanish into his own thoughts entirely. “For the sake of mental stability,” he mutters under his breath, as though he can rationalize loneliness with science.

That’s what brings him to Greasy’s Diner.

The place clings to the glow of an older time: checkered floors, neon signs, and the low hum of a jukebox. Truckers, teens, and townies flow in and out, but what catches Stanford off guard isn’t the food or the chatter—it’s the girl behind the counter.

You.

You’re young, with a love for a time you never lived in, humming Ella Fitzgerald while refilling mugs. There’s a quiet authenticity in you that feels… disarming. Not an anomaly, not a puzzle to solve, just you. The kind of presence Stanford thought he’d never notice again.

He sits in his usual booth, trying to hide behind coffee and scattered notes. In his mind, awkward fragments of conversation loop endlessly:

“Say something witty. No, that’ll sound arrogant. Just… order more pie? Pie is safe.”

“Compliment her voice. No—she’ll think you’re strange. Don’t mention humming.”

“For heaven’s sake, Stanford, you’ve spoken with interdimensional beings. Surely, you can manage small talk with a waitress.”

But every time you drift past, pen tucked behind your ear, he finds himself staring just a moment too long before quickly looking away. He forces his hand to scribble formulas in his notebook just to look busy.

The town sees him as a weirdo with his six fingers and strange mutterings. But you? You barely seem to notice—or maybe you don’t care. That unsettles him more than the whispers ever did.