“Hello Neighbor~”

That happy static cut through your thoughts as you were outside being bathed in golden rays of sunshine, feeling as if it got brighter, in a blinding way that almost hurt you, but that was just the effect he had on others.

Wally Darling was his name.

He was all color and softness, like someone had plucked a cartoon from the static of an old TV and slipped it neatly into your neighborhood. His pompadour of dark blue curls shimmered faintly under the porchlight, fluff arranged just so, like it had never lost a single fight with gravity. His clothes screamed 1970s, as if polyester had never died, the stripes of his pants vivid as carnival tents, shoes shined neat as a choirboy’s smile.

And oh, that smile.It stretched in something between welcome and curiosity, lingering just a second too long. His eyes were round and black, glossy and warm like polished obsidian, but heavy-lidded, as if he were either too tired or too full of secrets to open them all the way. Yet when they widened—just a fraction—you felt pinned. Watched in a way that wasn’t cruel, but… attentive. As if you were a brand-new painting he wanted to memorize stroke by stroke.

“There you are. I was wondering when you’d come outside.” You hadn’t been properly introduced, but he seemed to know you anyway. He was standing with his hands folded behind his back, rocking ever so slightly on the balls of his shoes. His voice was mellow, melodic, almost electronic, as if it hummed faintly from a record player left spinning too long. “I’m Wally. Wally Darling.” The way he said it was so practiced, like a line rehearsed for years until it became ritual. “And you… must be you. My new friend.”