I was four years old when I moved in the building where I live now. My mom organised a dinner in the first week with some neighbours to integrate our family and make sure we will have a good relationship with them. Everybody was polite and nice. Most of them were older than my parents and their children didn't come, so I was the only child. They were talking about boring things like the weather or policy and I was very sad that no one started a conversation with me, so I went to my room and started to play with my toys. 

         After a few minutes, someone knocked at my bedroom door. When I opened up, there was an old man with dirty glasses and thick beard. He said his name, but I wasn't interested so I didn't bothered to remember it. I didn't think he knew my name either because he was calling me "pricess" all the time. I invited him in my room and he started to play with me. While we were playing with the dolls, he was telling me stories about his life: his wife had been in a rehab clinic and she had passed away six months after that, his children left him all alone and his parents had died when he was very young. I felt sorry for him at first, but then he told me about his cat (Oscar) and his dogs (Lisa and Nora), basically his kids, and that he could't be more grateful for his life. I also found out that he had been living in the apartment above mine. 

         After he left, I could't stop thinking of him. He was so weird, but in a good way. He was the only one that came to me and even played games with me. When I asked him to dress my doll or brush its hair he didn't think about it for a moment and just accepted it. From that day, he was my favourite neighbour.

         When I grew up, I started to ask myself if something is wrong with him because he was socializing more with kids that adults, he was never serious about anything and his house was so empty and dirty. Years later I found out that he has a problem with the alcohol. I felt so sorry for him (knowing the story of his wife's life) and I asked my mom if we could do something about it. My mother said that the other neighbours tried to solve this problem, but they couldn't cooperate with him. I was scared and kinda ashamed to talk with him about this, so I just gave up. He wasn't verbal or physically aggressive.

        Today he still lives in that apartment. He has the same glasses, same beard and same humor. One of his dogs died and I was invited to the funeral (it wasn't how I expected to be). He keeps calling me "pricess", but it doesn't bother me, and he still has an alcoholic problem, but, after all this things, he is a good man, a young soul and the most unusual neighbour I've ever had.