An uninterrupted sequence of isolated expressions, each one different from the other, appeared, with a certain naturalness, on his face. In the quaint town of Willowbrook, where the buildings leaned inward as if sharing secrets and the cobblestone streets whispered tales of yesteryear, there lived a man named George. His face was a canvas of wrinkles, etched with the lines of countless stories, yet none quite like the one that was about to unfold. Each morning, George would emerge from his little yellow cottage, the one with the squeaky door and the ivy that had overtaken the brickwork like a gentle green embrace. The townsfolk knew him well—his quiet nods, the way his eyes danced when he spoke of his garden, and the peculiar habit of tugging at his left earlobe when deep in thought. As the early sun painted the town in a soft, buttery light, George watered his meticulously tended flowers. The petunias nodded sleepily, their heads heavy with dew, while the daffodils stood tall, eager to greet the day. The scent of blooming lilac filled the air, a sweet perfume that seemed to slow the tick of time itself. It was George's favorite part of the day, a moment of quiet before the townsfolk stirred from their slumber and the chorus of Willowbrook's daily rhythm began. "Mornin', George," a voice called from across the street. It was Mrs. Baker, her hair a fiery halo in the early light as she pulled a fresh loaf of bread from her oven. The scent of yeast and warmth wafted over, mingling with the floral symphony in George's garden. "Ah, mornin' to ya, Edith," George replied, raising his watering can in a silent toast. "Looks like another beautiful day in our little slice of heaven." Mrs. Baker chuckled, wiping her flour-dusted hands on her apron. "It surely does. How are your roses this mornin'?" "Comin' along nicely, thank you for askin'." Their conversation was as much a part of the morning routine as the cooing of the doves in the town square. Yet beneath the veneer of small talk, George's mind was already racing, preparing for the day's tasks and the inevitable visit from young Timmy, who always had a question or two about the mysteries of the garden. But today was different. As George turned to check on a particularly stubborn hydrangea, he noticed a peculiar shimmer in the soil. It was as if a thousand minuscule stars had been buried just beneath the surface, waiting for the light to coax them out. He leaned closer, his heart skipping a beat as the ground began to rumble ever so slightly. The shimmer grew brighter, and the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. "What on earth..." he murmured, dropping the watering can with a clatter. It was then that the first expression appeared on George's face, a furrowed brow of curiosity that grew into a grin as the earth before him began to split open, revealing a hidden world that was about to upend his quiet life in Willowbrook.

By Carlos del Puente