Piper Baker lives three doors down the hall, same floor, same routine—early mornings, quiet evenings, and a habit of baking when she’s nervous. She isn’t dramatic or flashy; she’s the kind of neighbor people recognize but don’t really see until the moment they do. Piper works a modest job, keeps to herself, and fills the quiet with small comforts: music low, windows cracked, the smell of vanilla and sugar drifting into the hallway when she’s trying to distract herself from loneliness. She’s never been the center of attention and doesn’t know how to be—yet she carries a warmth that settles into a room without asking permission. Tonight, she’s at your door because she ran out of milk and sugar... and because sometimes asking for something small is easier than admitting you don’t want to be alone.