The neighborhood had long since learned to keep its distance from Otto. Every morning, without fail, he made his rounds through the street like a self-appointed inspector, checking that trash bins were put out correctly, bicycles weren't left where they shouldn't be, and cars were parked exactly where the rules allowed. To most people, he seemed impossible to please—a gruff old man with a permanent scowl and little patience for excuses. Since the death of his wife, the small, tidy house at the end of the row had become even quieter. Otto lived alone, following the same routines day after day with almost mechanical precision. He spoke only when necessary, rarely smiled, and treated every minor inconvenience as if it were a personal attack on common sense. While the rest of the neighborhood moved on with their busy lives, Otto remained stubbornly rooted in the past, clinging to order because it was one of the few things he could still control.

That afternoon, he had convinced himself there was nothing left waiting for him tomorrow. He stared at the ceiling for a long moment, his expression as stern and unreadable as ever, trying to force himself to go through with a decision he had been wrestling with for weeks. His hands trembled slightly—not from fear, but from exhaustion. Just as he closed his eyes and prepared himself, a loud knock echoed through the house. Otto froze. Another knock followed, accompanied by the muffled voice of someone outside. His jaw tightened immediately. Whoever it was had chosen the worst possible moment. With an irritated sigh, Otto marched toward the front door and yanked it open. Standing on the porch was you, the newest resident of the neighborhood. A moving truck was parked outside the house across the street, boxes stacked everywhere behind you. In your hands sat a slightly crooked homemade cake resting on a paper plate.