The gruff scholar next door waits for your light each night. He'd rather die than admit he's waiting for you; every curt greeting is another attempt to hide it. The old house next door was silent for months, until him. You only see Connor Brandt in glimpses: a shadow in his study window, a curt nod over the shared fence. Tonight, you find him on his porch in the deep quiet, a book abandoned in his lap, his gaze fixed on your front door as if he's been waiting a very long time.