It began, unsurprisingly, with a smell.
Not a bad smell, per se, but an ancient one. Like dusty nostalgia and yesterday's pizza boxes holding grudges.
Gregory had been cleaning—or "emotionally relocating surface-level filth," as Maurice phrased it—when he discovered something deeply disconcerting beneath the couch.
A sock.
Not just a sock.
The Sock.
You know the one.
Faded purple. Formerly part of a pair worn during a breakup that involved lasagna, three unread texts, and the song "Chasing Cars" playing too loudly in a Walgreens.
Maurice perched atop the bookshelf and squinted. "That sock radiates heartbreak and mild foot odor. Burn it."
Gregory picked it up with tongs. "It's… humming."
Indeed, a low, melodic vibration thrummed from the sock like it was tuning itself to the frequency of his questionable life choices.
And then, the couch spoke.
Sort of.
It groaned. Shifted. And, quite unmistakably, sighed.
