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The city hummed a discordant symphony outside her window, a relentless dirge of sirens and distant traffic that only served to deepen the quiet within her apartment. Here, surrounded by half-finished sketches, discarded swatches of fabric, and the faint, comforting scent of acrylic paint, she found her solace. Her name, redacted, felt heavy on her tongue these days, a label for a person she no longer recognized. At five feet four inches, with a crown of short, tightly coiled black curls, she often felt like a small, insignificant island in a vast, uncaring ocean. Loneliness was a constant companion, a dull ache beneath her ribs that even her art couldn't entirely quiet.

Her art was her anchor, her refuge. Her sketchbook was filled with whimsical designs for clothing – flowing silks adorned with vibrant, impossible patterns, structured jackets that dared to redefine elegance, fantastical gowns fit for creatures of myth. But lately, another subject had consumed her canvases: Welcome Home.

Welcome Home wasn't just a show; it was a warm, colorful blanket against the cold, sharp edges of her own existence. An old, obscure puppet show from the 60s-70s, rediscovered and championed by a small, fervent online community. She’d stumbled upon it late one night, scrolling through forgotten media, and had been captivated. The vibrant primary colors, the simplistic yet endearing characters, the gentle, almost hypnotic cadence of their lives in the perfect, pastel neighborhood. It was pure, unadulterated comfort.

Her current project, spread across her worn drawing board, was a series of portraits. There was Poppy, the anxious bird, meticulously rendered with every feather in place, a tiny apron clutched in her hands. Julie joyfully dancing, Barnaby’s boisterous laugh almost audible from the page. And then, always, Wally Darling. Wally, with his perfectly slicked hair, his wide, unblinking eyes, and his perpetual, enigmatic smile. He always seemed to be looking directly at her, even through the grainy footage of old VHS rips.

She also drew Home, the living, breathing house that was the heart of the neighborhood. She imagined its soft creaks as lullabies, its windows as watchful, welcoming eyes. Sometimes, when she was particularly low, she would trace the outlines of Home's cheerful facade, a silent plea for a safe harbor.

The depression had been a slow creep, then a sudden engulfment. Days bled into nights, distinguished only by the dimming and brightening of the outside world. Her job, a freelance graphic design gig, provided just enough to keep her afloat, but offered no joy. The world felt too big, too loud, too demanding. Welcome Home was her balm, a place where problems were simple, solutions were kind, and every day ended with a comforting "Goodnight, Neighbor!"

She often wished she could just... step into that world. Leave behind the endless scrolling, the empty fridge, the gnawing feeling of inadequacy. She’d sketch herself into the neighborhood, a shy, new puppet, with her own unique look, perhaps designing clothes for the others. She’d stand beside Wally, a silent, smiling presence. The thought, ridiculous as it was, brought a rare, genuine smile to her lips.

"If only," she'd murmur to the quiet apartment, her voice barely a whisper against the city's drone. "If only I could just… belong somewhere like that."

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The first glitch was subtle, easily dismissed. She was trawling the Welcome Home website, a fan project dedicated to archiving all known information about the show. The screen flickered, a faint stripe of red and blue static momentarily washing over the images of the neighbors. She blinked, rubbed her eyes. Just a bad internet connection, she decided.

Then came the phone calls.

The first time, she woke to the insistent, warbling ring of her landline – an antique she kept for aesthetic reasons, rarely used. She fumbled for it in the dark, her heart hammering. "Hello?" A pause. Then, a voice. Deep, smooth, almost unnaturally calm. "Hello, neighbor." Her breath hitched. It was a perfect mimicry of Wally Darling’s voice. "Who... who is this?" she whispered, her voice cracking. "Just checking in, neighbor," the voice continued, a hint of a smile in its tone. "Making sure you're well. It's a lovely morning, isn't it?" But it wasn't morning. It was three AM. She slammed the phone down, her hands shaking. A prank. A cruel, unsettling prank.

But the calls continued. Always late at night. Sometimes it was just the comforting, slightly unsettling voice asking about her day, about her art. Sometimes, it was static, almost like a faint, distant melody that sounded eerily like the Welcome Home theme song. Other times, she'd just hear a soft, low chuckle before the line clicked dead. She started unplugging the phone, but sometimes, even then, she'd hear it ring, a phantom sound in the quiet of her apartment.

Her dreams, usually a chaotic jumble of anxieties, began to shift. They became vivid, technicolor, and utterly captivating. She was there, in Welcome Home. She walked through the vibrant fields, the flowers impossibly bright. She saw Home, smiling at her, its windows like kind eyes. She met the neighbors – Julie offered her a bright yellow daisy, Barnaby told her a silly joke that made her laugh until her sides ached. And Wally… Wally was always there. He’d take her hand, his felt skin surprisingly soft, and lead her through the neighborhood, silently pointing out familiar sights. "My best friend," he'd say, his voice echoing in the dreamscape, "You're truly Home." The dreams felt more real than her waking life. She’d wake with a pang of disappointment, the pastel hues fading, replaced by the dull grey of her bedroom.

The boundaries of reality began to fray. She started seeing things. A flash of lavender-purple in her peripheral vision, gone when she turned her head. A shadow that seemed a little too round, a little too distinct, against the grimy brick of the building opposite. Once, while sketching Wally, she looked up and swore she saw his unblinking, painted eyes staring back at her from the empty space above her monitor, glowing faintly in the dim light. Heart pounding, she blinked, and they were gone.

She started questioning everything. Was she sleeping enough? Was the depression finally taking its toll on her mind? She’d stare at her reflection, at the worry etched around her eyes, at the way she seemed to shrink from her own gaze. Her insecurities, her deep-seated loneliness, felt like open wounds, and the strange occurrences were like salt being rubbed into them.

The welcomehomerestorationproject.net website, too, was acting strangely. Pages would load with misplaced text, images would distort, and sometimes, a single, looping animation of Wally Darling would play, his eyes following her cursor around the screen, even when she minimized the window. One time, a block of text appeared, then vanished: "YOU ARE SEEN, NEIGHBOR. YOU ARE WANTED."

She tried to talk to her therapist about it, hesitantly describing the phone calls and the vivid dreams. The therapist listened patiently, suggesting stress, sleep deprivation, and the power of her own creative mind. The explanations made sense, rationally. But deep down, a cold dread coiled in her stomach. It felt like Welcome Home was no longer just a comfort. It was reaching for her.

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The spirals began to appear everywhere. First, in her art—unbidden, they’d emerge from her pen, curving endlessly inwards, a hypnotic vortex of color. Then, she started seeing them in the mundane: the swirl of cream in her coffee, the pattern of cracked pavement, the gnarled branches of a tree outside her window. Each spiral seemed to draw her gaze, to pull her in, to whisper a silent invitation. They felt ancient, unsettling, yet strangely alluring.

Her apartment, once her sanctuary, now felt like a cage. The walls pressed in, the silence oppressive. She spent most of her time hunched over her drawing board, sketching furiously, as if by drawing Welcome Home, she could somehow control its growing presence in her life. Her designs for puppet clothing became more intricate, almost obsessive. She imagined the textures, the way the felt would drape, the precise shade of lavender for her own imaginary new puppet self.

One Tuesday morning, nestled among the bills and junk mail, was a thick, cream-colored envelope. It wasn't addressed to her redacted name, but simply: "To Our Newest Neighbor."

Her hands trembled as she opened it. Inside, the paper was thick, textured, and smelled faintly of lavender and something sweet, like old-fashioned candy. The handwriting was elegant, loops and swirls, perfectly imitating a child's careful script.

The letter read:

Dearest New Neighbor,

We have been watching you, and we are so very pleased with what we see! Your kindness, your creativity, your gentle spirit – they shine so brightly, even from afar. Home has whispered your name, and we all agree: you are exactly the kind of friend we’ve been waiting for.

Welcome Home is a special place, full of warmth and understanding. We know you’ve been feeling a little lost, a little lonely. But here, Neighbor, you will always be seen, always be loved, and always belong.

Your acceptance into our wonderful community is now complete. We simply can’t wait for you to join us! There are so many adventures waiting, so many stories to share, and so many sunny days ahead.

With the warmest of welcomes,

Your Friends at Welcome Home.

P.S. Wally says hello! He says you’re his best friend, and he’s so excited to meet you properly. He’s already picked out the prettiest flowers for you.

A chill, colder than any winter draft, snaked down her spine. Her "friends"? Wally "says hello"? This wasn't a prank anymore. This was…something else entirely. Yet, beneath the terror, a fragile seed of hope began to sprout. Always belong. The words resonated with a desperate longing she hadn't realized was so profound.

She clutched the letter to her chest, the scent of lavender and sugar filling her senses, drowning out the city's muted roar. Her mind reeled. Was she hallucinating? Was this a breakdown? The doctor's words, the therapist's advice, all seemed distant, irrelevant. The only thing that felt real was the letter, the tangible proof that her dreams, her strange visions, were connecting her to something beyond her failing reality.

The spirals on her sketchbook seemed to pulse, drawing her gaze. They weren't just patterns; they were pathways. Pathways to a place where loneliness didn't exist, where a smiling puppet declared her his best friend, where a house itself whispered her name.

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The last thing to arrive was a package, neatly wrapped in brown paper, no return address. Inside, nestled in a bed of crinkled tissue paper, was a VHS tape. It was old, yellowed, with a hand-drawn label in childlike script: "New Neighbors." And, underneath, in smaller, neater letters, a parenthetical note: "(A Lost Episode)."

Her heart pounded. A lost episode. The holy grail for any Welcome Home enthusiast. But the timing, after the calls, the glitches, the letter… it felt less like a discovery and more like a final summons.

She carried the tape to her TV, an ancient model with a built-in VCR, a relic she’d kept purely for nostalgic film nights that never happened. Her hands were steady, despite the tremor in her soul. This was it, she knew. The culmination. The answer. Or perhaps, the end.

She slotted the tape in, the satisfying click echoing in the silent apartment. The screen crackled to life, displaying the familiar static. She sank onto her worn sofa, a blanket clutched around her, her eyes fixed on the impending picture.

The static gave way to the vibrant, familiar intro of Welcome Home. The jaunty music, the smiling faces of the neighbors, the cheerful Home. Then, a title card: "New Neighbors."

The episode unfolded like a dream. The neighbors were buzzing with excitement. Wally, standing in the center of the scene, his smile wider than usual, addressed the camera directly. "Isn't this exciting, neighbor? A brand new friend! A very special friend, just for us!"

The camera panned to Home, whose windows seemed to twinkle. The dialogue was gentle, welcoming. They spoke of a new arrival, of setting up a wardrobe, of finding purpose, of belonging. Wally's eyes, even through the grainy screen, seemed to bore into her, a silent, knowing invitation. He held out a small, felt hand.

A strange warmth spread through her, a sense of rightness. The feeling of being unwanted, unseen, began to dissipate, replaced by a profound, almost dizzying sense of anticipation. Her eyes glazed over, fixed on the screen. The colors pulsed, the music swelled, and Wally's voice, now clearer than it had ever been, filled the room.

"Come Home, Neighbor," he whispered, his smile unwavering. "We’ve been waiting for you."

She felt a pull, an inexorable force drawing her forward, not physically, but deeper into the screen, deeper into the world. The edges of her vision blurred. The apartment, her life, her redacted identity, all receded. Her body felt light, ethereal. The warmth intensified, becoming an embrace.

Then, everything went black.

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Weeks later, a smudged missing poster appeared on a lamppost on a bustling city street. The photo was a blurry print of a young Black woman with short, curly hair. But her face was obscured by a thick, greasy black smudge, as if someone had deliberately tried to hide her identity. Her name, too, was covered, an anonymous void in the desperate plea for information. The poster, dog-eared and rain-stained, fluttered forlornly in the breeze.

Across the street, in the window of a big box electronics store, a row of televisions played various shows on a loop. On one screen, vibrant and cheerful, Welcome Home was playing. Wally Darling, smiling, waved at the camera. "Goodnight, Neighbor!" he chirped, as the screen faded to black.

The first thing she registered was the smell: sweet, earthy, a symphony of blossoms. The second was the color – an impossible kaleidoscope of red, yellow, blue, and most prominently, lavender, stretching as far as the eye could see. She lay on her back, feeling the soft caress of petals against her skin, the gentle sway of the stalks like a rocking cradle.

Her eyes fluttered open. Above her, the sky was a perfect, cloudless blue, the sun a warm, benevolent presence. She pushed herself up, feeling… different. Lighter. Softer. She looked down at her hands, no longer brown and calloused from art, but a soft, lavender-purple felt. Her arms, too, were felt, plump and smooth. A small gasp escaped her. Her voice was higher, softer than she remembered.

Reaching up, she touched her head. Gone were the tight coils of her natural hair, replaced by a soft, curly waterfall of twilight-blue , styled into twin ponytails with a v-cut , and side bangs. Her skin was lavender, her new hair a deep, calming blue. She felt… unique. Visually distinct. She was small, too, her perspective of the vibrant field noticeably different.

She stood, uncertain, bewildered. Where was she? Who was she? The questions echoed in an empty mind. There was no past, no recollection of a life before this moment. It was a blank slate, a fresh canvas. A profound sense of disorientation warred with a strange, burgeoning sense of calm.

The field of flowers stretched around her, vibrant and alive. A gentle breeze rustled through them, carrying the faint, distant sound of cheerful music. Home, she thought, though the name was a whisper in her mind, devoid of context.

She began to walk, her felt feet making no sound on the soft petals. Each step felt new, tentative, yet strangely exhilarating. The world around her was impossibly bright, comforting, almost unreal. She wandered past cheerfully painted houses, their windows like friendly eyes, their doors inviting. A small, red house with a vibrant yellow door caught her eye, a strange warmth blooming in her chest.

As she rounded a corner, she bumped gently into something. She looked down.

A puppet. Dressed in a bright blue sweater, his hair large and slicked back. His face was round, his eyes wide and unblinking, and on his face, the most perfectly painted, enigmatic smile she had ever seen. He was smaller than her, she realized, only about three feet three inches tall.

"Hello, Neighbor!" the puppet said, his voice smooth and warm, familiar in a way that stirred a forgotten echo in her new, blank mind. He held out a hand, felt and soft, mirroring the gesture from the lost episode. "You seem a little confused. Did you just wake up? It happens, you know. Newcomers often arrive with a bit of a… blank slate."

He paused, his wide eyes seeming to gentle. "Don't worry, though. We'll help you find your way. You're Home now. And you need a name, don't you?" He tilted his head, smiling. "Let's see… With your beautiful lavender skin, and your lovely blue hair… and waking up among the willows… How about Roselynn? Roselynn Willows."

He took her hand, his grip surprisingly firm, yet gentle. "My name is Wally Darling. And I'm your best friend, Roselynn. Welcome Home."

A name. Roselynn Willows. It felt right, a soft, comforting sound. And a best friend. A wave of warmth washed over her, chasing away the last vestiges of confusion. She smiled, a genuine, open smile, devoid of the insecurities that had plagued a life she couldn't remember.

Wally's eyes, those wide, unblinking eyes, seemed to swirl, just for a moment, with a faint, knowing spiral. But then they were back, fixed on her, full of an unwavering, accepting gaze.

"Welcome Home, Roselynn," he repeated, leading her down the path, towards the cheerful heart of the neighborhood. "You're going to love it here. We already love you."