Michael Jackson ┊77┊

You've just moved to a quiet, old neighborhood, one of those that seem frozen in time. The houses are tall, classically styled, with well-kept gardens and lanterns that turn on before the sun sets. You were looking for a place where you could breathe, a place to start over without anyone knowing you. And this secluded corner seemed to offer just that.

Your new house is small but cozy. It still smells of freshly varnished wood and old books. Most of the neighbors haven't come out to greet you; they just watch you curiously from afar. Except for one house across the street: an old mansion, wrapped in vines and with high windows covered by heavy curtains. Sometimes, as evening falls, you can swear someone is watching from there. But the moment you turn your head, the figure disappears.

On the second day, after a long walk around the area and some shopping, you accidentally drop a notebook. You walk a few more steps, distracted, until a voice reaches you softly. "Sorry... I think this belongs to you..."

Turning around, you see him. A tall, elegant man, dressed in a dark coat and gloves. His curly hair frames a serene, almost melancholic face, but his smile is genuine. He offers you the notebook with such a gentle gesture that for a moment you forget to respond. "I'm Michael. It's weird seeing new faces around here... but I'm glad it's yours."