The slightly dumpy rental home has a slightly dumpy backyard ringed by a slightly warped fence of gray wood. It's for privacy. Namjoon feels private. He avoids the big window in his bedroom, never sure when The Neighbor may be watching. No one observes his comings and goings, the days of solitude and silence except the silent menagerie on the windowsill.

The backyard is rectangular, slightly wider than it is long. There’s not much grass to speak of, and the dirt in between is hard and dry. The small back porch is wooden and plain, with two short steps down. There’s a ramshackle roof, sure, but keeping the sun off only does so much to manage the heat. There are no chairs on the porch, and no grill. He doesn’t have a table and planters are more than beyond him.

Namjoon sits on the top step with a glass of lukewarm water, squinting through the sunlight.

The backyard is devoid of anything except a hardy tree in one corner and the fence.

The Neighbor's backyard is on the other side of the fence, to the west.

Despite having never seen it, sometimes Namjoon imagines what it looks like. The Neighbor must have a decent yard, something cared for and homey. Maybe there are fake animals scattered around to liven up the hot, dry desert. Maybe Namjoon’s more firmly ensconced in the suburbs than he imagined and The Neighbor has a grill, a couple of cracking, plastic lawn chairs and pink plastic flamingos all faded from the sun. Maybe even a kiddie pool to goof off in during the inevitably scorching summer days.

Though the heat is awful and unfamiliar, Namjoon finds himself spending a lot of time outside. It's strange and nice to sit and look up at the clouds, to listen to the few birds chirp excitedly, or watch the big ones, the hawks and ravens, make slow circles up in the white-hot sky like they were set free at the opening of the world and haven't touched down since. On rare occasions where the heat bleeds off beneath thick, slow-moving clouds, he'll lay out on a blanket and take a nap. His legs are getting a tan for the first time in recent and not-so-recent memory and he finds himself thumbing the clear demarcation between pale thigh and tan thigh like it might smudge.

On other days, he walks around the perimeter of the back fence. What was initially a perimeter check has transformed into a compulsive circuit where he starts at the gate on the west side and taps on each slat of wood with a knuckle until he reaches the far east end. Sometimes he turns around and comes right back, tap, tap, tapping. Every once and while his eyes catch glimpses of the backyards and houses on the other side of the fence, but he’s never stopped to properly look. It’s something he’s been holding away from himself, not entirely consciously. His strange brain holds him back, keeping the you don’t deserve it mentally unsaid.

Until the day Namjoon comes home from an unusually frustrating day at work. His shoulders aren’t tight, but there’s the ghost of a temper sliding through his veins. The sensation is like an ache and it propels him through the house like flotsam on a river until he’s deposited in the backyard, up against that back fence. One hand grasps the post despite the sharp edge digging into his palm. His eye is up against the gap between slats and Namjoon can see into an unfamiliar yard, is staring at the back of an unfamiliar house.

A soft, thin fuzz of grass covers the yard like a threadbare blanket, interrupted by a rusting swing set and a playhouse covered in torn, sun-faded stickers. Grass is noticeably missing in front of the swings and at the landing pad of the short slide. A scuffed bicycle and tattered soccer ball are scattered carelessly across the grass. The house itself is squat, nearly identical to his own except the siding is a stubborn yellow that manages to be cheerful through a light coating of dust. Lawn chairs loosely sprawl around a round sculpted metal table with potted flowers in the center. They’re pansies. Namjoon’s never been into flowers, but the knowledge comes to him all at once. Pansies.

It’s a house. It’s a picture framed in weary wood and the distracting flutter of his own eyelashes.

Namjoon stares and stares, and takes it all in until his mind reflects the evening sky: calm, cool, clear. It’s not hot and abrasive anymore. His breath is warm and it bounces off the wood and back into his face. His forehead drops against the fence and he closes his eyes, breathing slowly.

He’s done it. Namjoon has peeked into one of his neighbor’s lives. The mental image of his house expands, rolling out beyond his back fence and into the yard of this neighbor, stopping at the back of their house, the sliding glass doors with the blinds twisted shut.

Settling his back against the fence, Namjoon slide down until he’s sitting in the dirt and looks up at the sky. Stars are beginning the peek through the velvety sky as the sun sinks more quickly than he knew it could. The light continues to change before his eyes as the night grows in strength. Except The Night isn’t here. It’s just Namjoon and the dust and the fence and the yellow house, with its well-loved swing set, its bikes and balls and children who run and play with only child-things to worry about.

And maybe The Neighbor’s standing on his back porch right now, with his cane gripped tight in one hand and his tipped up to the sky, just like Namjoon.

Maybe they’re not so different, here.

--

Every time he finds himself in the backyard, from that day on, Namjoon pauses in his routine of walking up and down the fence to peek at the Yellow House. He hasn’t earned looking at the house on the east side, let alone at The Neighbor’s backyard.

As the weeks pass, Namjoon gets to know the Yellow House family. They have three or four kids -he can't tell if they all live there or they have friends over constantly- who can often be heard chasing each other around and shrieking. Sometimes a ball, rock, Frisbee, or any manner of object thumps into the fence, followed by catcalling and excited shouting. Nothing has sailed over yet. This is something Namjoon doesn't want to admit he's looking forward to. When it happens, he'll throw it back. He daydreams about this. Maybe he'll pop his head over the fence, say hi, and the kids will tell him what they're playing, they’ll be smiling, and then maybe the nightmares in his head won't be so loud anymore.

--

It’s morning. Namjoon has the day off and he’s in the backyard, as he’s wont to be when the weather is tolerable. Kitten shirt: on. Shorts: short. The Yellow House kids are yelling, followed by harried yelling, and then everything goes quiet and the familiar sound of the sliding door slamming shut carries over the fence. Everything is left in flat silence. Even the single bird that roosts in the tree is silent, perhaps out looking for breakfast.

Namjoon sips from his glass of water to combat the dry, dusty air parching his throat.

It could be minutes or maybe an hour when Namjoon’s ear perk. The Neighbor. There are sounds coming from his backyard, the sound transmitted perfectly through the still air. The sliding door opens and closes, and there are footsteps with the awkward third beat of a cane on the wooden porch. The Neighbor isn’t working, or doesn’t work. He’s home. More importantly, he’s in his backyard, just like Namjoon.

Does he know that Namjoon’s out here? Is he looking this way? Is he inspecting his theoretical plastic flamingoes, checking the bleached colors of their faded wings and beaks?

A type of nervous energy bubbles up inside him, the closes to giddiness Namjoon has experience since he walked away from the compound under the watchful eye of the moon. The Neighbor, The Neighbor, the giver of gifts, the maker of animals, the man with a cane and crochet hooks. Now’s his chance to meet him. It would be so easy. All he has to do is call out and his voice will go over and through the fence, squeezing through the gaps in bits and pieces until it reemerges on the other side, whole and complete in The Neighbor’s ears. He can walk over, be seen and see The Neighbor in return.

Strength shoots to Namjoon’s legs. His thighs tense, lifting him from his seat and halfway to standing.

He freezes.

Falls back into place.

His heart is pounding and his hand anchors him to the step.

The Neighbor has been a mythical figure for so long, a presence that resides in Namjoon’s head as much as out. To put a face to the name. A voice to the face.

Namjoon speaks to people. His job requires it, even if he tries to convince Donghae to keep him away from the front counter most days. His home, however, is cocooned in silence and solitude. He’s wrapped in wool, muffled from the outside world that daren’t intrude. Speaking to The Neighbor beckons the word inside his backyard, his space.

Can he do that?

His hand jerks away from the step and knocks the water glass over, sending it clattering down the two short steps to loll in the dirt.

“.”

The water seeps into the parched wood and ground in an instant. The glass is unbroken. Namjoon stares at it as it settles.

“You are my only sun, one and only in the world. I bloomed for you, but I’m still thirsty.”

The clear voice floats over the fence in an unfamiliar rhythm. Donghae plays odd and obscure music at The Pied Piper, but it’s so different from a warm, human voice only a handful of feet away.

The melody changes, making it clear he’s jumped to somewhere else in the song. “Everybody says it’s over but I can’t stop this. I can’t tell whether it’s sweat or tears…” The singing trails off into humming, like the singer isn’t quite sure of the melody or the words. What must be the cane taps impatiently on the deck.

Holding his breath, Namjoon slowly pushes up from his seat. The distance to the fence is 15 long feet, the easiest, yet most difficult trek he’s made. It would be easier if it were agonizing, but Namjoon’s feet carry him there in few short, surreal seconds. The tips of his fingers reach out and touch the gray wood of the fence. He automatically looks up, like The Neighbor will be there, but he can’t see anything other than wood and sky.

The cane taps a few more times. A sigh. The humming picks up again. It’s unsteady this time, and Namjoon listens as The Neighbor moves, thumping down the steps that must match those on his own back porch, and then his sounds are lost in the dirt.

Namjoon sways where he’s standing. His weight shifts to the other foot and he catches a glimpse of The Neighbor’s backyard through a gap.

Instantly, he closes his eyes. He can’t look yet.

The tree’s branches are rustling in the slight breeze, its solitary resident chirping in precise, regular intervals. His breath is too loud and he can hear the echoes of the bones in his legs creaking like they need oiled. He’s already old on the inside. The shuffling, which had been too quiet to hear before, is suddenly close. It’s just on the other side of the fence. The Neighbor is here. His presence changes the very air. It’s shared now.

Namjoon’s eyes are still closed. He can’t see The Neighbor looking at him. He can’t see The Neighbor unsteadily rising to his tip-toes and reaching over the fence. He can’t see The Neighbor carefully place a small object on the horizontal slat that runs across the inside of the fence.

“Memories are crumbling like dried flower petals on my fingertips and under my feet.”

That voice is dangerously close.

Namjoon opens his eyes.

The Neighbor is there, on the other side of the fence, looking back through the gap. Though only a small slice of him is visible, it’s clear he’s smiling faintly. Their eyes meet.

“Hi.”

Namjoon chokes on his own spit and begins to cough in lieu of reply. He can feel his face turning bright red.

When he can finally breathe again, The Neighbor is still there, though the dip of his brow may be concern. “You alright over there?” he asks in the same voice with which he sings.

Still flushed, Namjoon clears his throat. His fists clench and unclench in this completely surreal moment. Never did he think he’d meet The Neighbor like this. The glimpse of him is familiar in a vague way, something he can mentally match with the memories of a figure retreating from the front porch through the fish-eye lens of the peephole: same messy brown hair, same distinctive jawline.

“Uh, yeah,” Namjoon says. “I’m…okay. I just swallowed wrong.” Words are actually coming out of his mouth and he really has no idea what they are. There aren’t any thoughts to be considered and voluntarily channeled down to be shaped into words. Instead, he’s just…talking. Talking at this slice of The Neighbor who looks kinder than Namjoon deserves.

“I’m glad there’s no permanent damage,” The Neighbor chuckles. “It’s nice to finally meet you face to face. It’s been a while since you moved in, if I’m remembering right.”

“Yeah…a few months.” Namjoon nods along. “Nice to meet you too.” He trails off, suddenly unable to hold basic conversation. This is different from the short, business-related exchanges with customers at The Pied Piper. This is even different from Hoseok at the park. This is The Neighbor. “I’ve seen you around. The neighborhood.”

The Neighbor is still smiling. “Same. I think I see you going to and from work.” A thought visibly occurs to him, and he’s quirking up an eyebrow. “Oh, I’m Seokjin, by the way. That was rude of me. I should’ve introduced myself first.” Seokjin looks like he’d be shaking Namjoon’s hand if there wasn’t a fence in between them.

“Namjoon.” There’s an urge in him to talk without the fence separating them, so he can see all of Seokjin’s face. Even this little glimpse shows that his face is open. Seokjin may have his secrets, after all, most people do. That shadow, the animal that perched in the back of Namjoon’s eyes the last time he looked in a mirror are fully absent, however. Like recognizes like, and Seokjin is something new entirely.

The view changes as Seokjin or Namjoon shift in place. He catches a glimpse of the tip of his nose, the corner of his eye. The Neighbor is still smiling.

“Well, welcome to the neighborhood, Namjoon. I’m sorry to ditch you, but I have to get back inside before Spring thinks I’ve abandoned her. I can hear her crying at the door.” Seokjin’s cheek and ear slip by as he turns to glance in the direction of the back door. He turns back with an apologetic smile. “Hope to see you around some more!”

Their conversation is abruptly over and Namjoon has to wonder if it’s because of him. If Seokjin felt his past, if it radiates out of him like a toxic miasma, outsides matching insides. “Yeah, you too,” he manages weakly.

Seokjin limps away under Namjoon’s restricted gaze. Namjoon finds himself unconsciously shifting to keep the man in view. Their back porches are the same but Seokjin’s is cleaner and sporting furniture and a hanging flower bed with flowers that he can’t identify. When he reaches the door, he points commandingly through the glass at Spring, who or whatever she is.

He slides the door open carefully, murmuring all the while. Spring doesn’t particularly care, if the way the cat flies out of the small gap is any indication. A short glimpse of a gray cat leaping across the porch and off into the yard is all Namjoon sees. Seokjin’s yelling, “Spring! Get back here!” and Namjoon looks up and Spring’s on top of the fence, glaring down her nose at him imperiously. She leaps, and he thinks she’s coming straight for him, but she goes over his shoulder and something glittering tumbles from the fence to land at his feet.

Namjoon’s distracted by the cat, who’s already sitting on the top porch step, daintily a paw like she owns the place. As if sensing his attention, she tucks her paw away and stares at him with luminous green eyes.

The sight of life in his dumpy little house is shocking. The house, with its dirty siding and sad porch, barren of flowers or any other decorations, is suddenly pulled forward from the background. Even in daylight it was shrouded in shadows, dark and sad. Now with Spring sitting and staring, she’s brought the house to life with her, shoved it into a new dimension of reality, one that includes Seokjin, pansies, and screaming children, with a clarity that’s both burning and glorious.

The self-reproach drowning him at Seokjin’s abrupt exist vanishes like a shadow in the sun, and Namjoon’s struck by an epiphany. I’m not alone anymore.

There’s a cat named Spring. The Neighbor is really Seokjin, who may not like him, but is no longer a shadowy figure or just a kind and startling wave at a mailbox. Hoseok lives around here, and he goes to the park with his nieces. The Yellow House kids have names, and friends, and they play games, and maybe go to school by the playground. They walk the same sidewalks. Other people pass by his house and look at the dusty siding and wonder who lives there. If they could see through the west window, they would find a crocheted menagerie. And if they could see his backyard, they would see a man and a cat and not think anything of it except, Well there’s a man spending time with his cat.

Carefully, Namjoon approaches the back porch in slow, even steps. He takes care to keep his hands and facial expression unthreatening, despite having no idea if Spring cares how his face looks. Memories of silently creeping in other, less savory circumstances come back in a flash, but they’re shaken away. Spring watches him, tracking his tentative progress like a patient queen.

“Hey, cat. Hey, Spring,” he calls quietly. Her head turns, periscope-like, as he skirts to the side of the step and slowly settles beside her.

Before he can blink, the cat’s in his lap, kneading his leg appreciatively. She’s heavier than he expected, and hot, and he’s almost afraid to touch her. He does, though. Her fur is soft and smooth beneath his fingers. He down her sleek head and across her back. She’s gray with dark mottled stripes. There’s a name for her coloring, but he has no idea what it is. Purrs rumble through her chest and throat, into Namjoon’s leg. Spring squints up at him and meows. The sun’s beating down on the top of his head making sweat prickle at his hairline. The wood of the porch making his go numb, and his leg is starting to sweat where Spring is sitting.

Namjoon thinks he could sit here like this forever.

“Excuse me, Namjoon?” Seokjin raps on the gate over by the side of the house.

Spring is completely nonplussed by Namjoon’s startled jerk. She digs her head into his hand, demanding more petting.

How ridiculous. In the thirty seconds in took Namjoon to get to Spring, he completely forgot about Seokjin, who’s probably worried sick about his wayward cat. And now he has to face him again after ing up the first time. . While Seokjin’s waiting at the gate, Namjoon doesn’t see a clear way to extricate himself from the purring lap-warmer. It doesn’t seem right to just pick her up, but he needs to let Seokjin in lest he think Spring met some kind of bad end in Namjoon’s backyard.

“Just come in!” he half-hollers after a moment of consideration. It isn’t until the gate rattles that he even wonders if the gate is locked.

“Alright, I’m coming in.” The gate swings open on squealing hinges. It isn’t locked, which surprises Namjoon. His whole life has been locked away the months he’s lived here, except the backyard, apparently.

When Seokjin emerges from the side of the house, Namjoon truly sees him for the first time.

His presence is just as surreal as Spring’s, bringing a startling vibrancy to the plain backyard. Seokjin’s bright, in appearance and expression. Namjoon would be surprised if he melted in the heat. He takes this in and the thoughts are back. Now that Seokjin can see all of Namjoon, what if he spots his darkness in the curve of his hands, or as a shadow draped over his shoulder? Seokjin’s abrupt exit is swarming through his mind again and it’s been a while since he’s thought of himself as poison.

Namjoon looks up at Seokjin and wishes that all he has would somehow be enough.

Somewhere along the line he placed a lot of his hopes on an oblivious Seokjin’s shoulders, long before he ever knew his name. The Neighbor frightened him, yes, but the gifts of crocheted animals, that wave by the mailbox…they started something. That kindness, reaching out, the connection is something Namjoon’s been tenuously grasping, holding close, even if he didn’t realize it. Now that link has solidified into a cat and a man in his backyard, smiling at him.

Why are you smiling at me?

Seokjin approaches slowly, like he’s wary of startling Spring or Namjoon, it’s not clear which. “Thanks for catching her! She’s a troublemaker who always wants cuddles, especially after she does something she know she shouldn’t have.”

Namjoon looks down at Spring. “It’s more like she caught me.”

Instead of sitting down, Seokjin rests an elbow on the porch railing. “She has aspirations of being an outdoor cat, but even birds scare her. I’m surprised she made it this far without running back to the house for cover, honestly.”

Namjoon still isn’t looking up, focusing on petting Spring just the way she likes it.

“She must really like you a lot.” Seokjin’s voice might be pleased.

“I like her a lot,” Namjoon says. He's never considered himself much of a cat person. He thinks, as Spring’s purring on his lap and Seokjin’s looking down at them, maybe, that he shouldn’t think so much about what kind of person he was before. All that effort it took to leave is worth nothing if he's mired in the ghosts of the past. So many things have changed, and are changing. Moving to Sarkosa was starting from scratch, a fact he tends to forget.

The mirror in the bathroom, hastily covered by a t-shirt, comes to mind. It’s almost unreal, out here in the sunlight.

“Sorry to drag her away from you, but I need to get Spring back inside.” Seokjin could actually be reluctant to take Spring away. Maybe he didn't pull away so quickly because he disliked Namjoon on sight. Maybe Namjoon needs to stop projecting his own damn insecurities onto unsuspecting neighbors with nice cats and actually take their intentions at face value.

It’s ridiculous that Seokjin’s the one apologizing when there’s such a mess sitting right in front of him.

Namjoon finally nods. Seokjin needs his cat back and he needs to retreat to his living room analyze this whole morning until nausea churns through his stomach, like the masochist he is.

This means actually rising from his seat. He doesn’t want to stand with Spring in his lap, but it’s not clear how Seokjin’s going to take her and use the cane at the same time. Shouldn’t he be holding on to her with both hands?

Seokjin leans over to scoop her up, but Namjoon pulls her closer to his chest. “I can take her, if that’s okay.” He purposefully doesn’t look at the cane.

Eyebrows rising, Seokjin straightens and retracts his hand.

“Not that I think you can’t carry her, but it might be easier...is what I was thinking,” Namjoon says lamely. Spring headbutts him in the chest. It feels like admonishment, though it may be because he stopped petting her.

His rising tension begins to fizzle out as Seokjin looks bemused rather than offended.

“Yeah, sure. Thank you,” he says. “Just follow me.” Without any further dawdling, Seokjin grabs his cane and turns to leave. This leaves Namjoon alone to figure out how to carry Spring without hurting her or giving her enough wiggle room to escape again. She’s curled up and comfortable, so he scoops his hands beneath her feet and and holds her close to his chest. A rough tongue laps at the underside of his chin, which startles him, but not enough to make him lose his grip. Seokjin’s already rounding the corner of house, almost to the gate. Namjoon hurries to catch up, careful not to jostle his passenger too much.

They follow Seokjin, who moves more quickly than Namjoon expected, out of the backyard, across both front yards, and to his front door. He tries not to think of it as trespassing. Seokjin pushes the door open and stands to the side. “Just drop her inside. There’s food waiting for her in the kitchen,” he says meaningfully. Spring’s ears twist in his direction and she pushes against Namjoon’s chest.

He knows cats land on their feet, but he can’t just drop her. Stepping up to the door, he carefully lowers her to the floor, trying not to press too hard on any one part of her body. Ignoring his caution, Spring leaps from his arms and takes off across the living room to disappear down the hall with a flick of her tail.

“Thanks!” Seokjin says, pulling Namjoon’s attention away from the inside of the house. It’s set up the same as Namjoon’s, but Seokjin's carpet is newer and multiple pairs of shoes are strewn across the entryway. A TV is blaring somewhere and there’s art on the walls.

It’s suddenly hard to swallow.

“Yeah, no problem,” Namjoon croaks.

He moves out of the way. Seokjin surprises him again by sticking his hand out for a handshake.

He’s smiling again. He does that a lot, considering who he’s been talking to. “Nice to meet you, Namjoon. You can come over and visit Spring any time you like.”

The offer is a surprise. Namjoon has no idea what to say, so he forces his head to nod and grip Seokjin’s hand for two firm shakes. It's not that he thought Seokjin was feeble or weak, but the strength of his hand is reassuring.

The touch of skin on skin is strangely electric. Touch-deprived is a subset of lonely that he never considered. He lets go.

After Seokjin waves one final time and shuts the door, Namjoon is left alone. In the ensuing silence, the heat, the dryness of his throat, and the absolute stillness of the day come rushing back. Will he be able to reach beyond the fence, grasp for more than a shred of a neighbor, a glimpse through the slats, step into the picture instead of lingering on the outside looking in?

Biting the inside of his cheek, Namjoon mechanically returns to his own backyard. He closes and locks the gate. Then unlocks it. Slowly pacing along the fence, he taps on every slat with the knuckle of his forefinger. Tap, tap, tap.

Halfway down the west side, his shoe sends something skittering through the dirt. It’s out of place. Namjoon slowly retrieves it. It’s a button. Not a button that’s sewed to a shirt, but a metal button with a clasp on the back and a laminated message on the front.

I’m here now. What are your other two wishes?

The words are bright pink on a plain blue background.

If Seokjin and Spring are the result of a wish, it’s a wish made by something so deep inside him he had no idea it existed. Maybe they’re a wish made by his empty house and his silent menagerie, always watching his empty life and wishing for him, because he doesn’t have it in him to wish anymore. Or he’s forgotten how.

The button slips into his pocket and disappears. It’s weightless, too thin to make the fabric bulge. Unsettled, Namjoon pulls it out again. It makes him absurdly happy to see it resting against his fingers, tangible proof of the morning, of The Neighbor who is actually Seokjin and Spring.

With the cheap metal warming in his hand, Namjoon goes up the two porch steps, opens the door, and with one last glance at Seokjin’s house over the fence, closes it behind him.