In the burgundy house on Postmaster Street addressed 170156, two parents of two kids united. The parents voluntarily chatted up a storm, where as the kids each assumed the “shy child” position and held their parents legs as they hid behind them.

Grace Hemsworth was grasping tightly to her father's pants. She had auburn hair and her father's green eyes that shimmered the elegance of emeralds. She had an orange tank top on that had a small sunflower design plastered in the center. She was short and had shorts on, revealing cuts and scrapes on her legs. She was adventurous, and, as of now a solo adventurer.

Lawrence Howe was grasping tightly to his mother's pants. He had black, wavy hair and brown eyes with a small twinge of red, which appeared almost demonic. He had a blue t-shirt on adorned with a picture of an airplane on it, pulling a banner with illegible symbols. He was moderately tall, his arms particularly muscular and his hands rough with calluses. He worked hard helping his mother in landscaping and even earned money under the table even though he was barely seven years old.

Both Grace Hemsworth and Lawrence Howe were born in the same year, were attending the same school, were in the same class, and were living on Postmaster Street addressed in the 170150 to 170160 range. They were neighbors, both being able to see through each others' second floor bedroom window, but they did not admit it or even show it. At school, they steered clear from one another. Walking home (a feasible two blocks for the average grade schooler), they stayed on opposite sides of the street. If one thing was for sure, away from Postmaster Street meant Grace and Lawrence were complete strangers.

That, of course, left the weekends they hung out together wide open. They chatted through their bedroom windows from time to time, each with a bowl of stones on their desks to get the others attention. They also sometimes just leaned on the tall, wooden fence that split their worlds down the middle—just to talk. Moreover, they talked about a bunch of things. They each imparted to each other a lot of knowledge. Not just important things, but worthless things too.

If there was something they imparted to each other, it was an infinite number of priceless things.

Grace and Lawrence were lucky to end up as neighbors. For one thing, they tolerated one another, and you could tell by how they argued over trivial things. From the Sun's exact size to the best fruit on the planet, they each had their opinion on the matter.

Another benefit was when they actually agreed on something. They were neighbors for so long that talking, figuring, listening, and figuring each other were almost second nature. They knew each other so well, from Grace's love of scrambled eggs to Lawrence's fascination of flying, that they developed that sort of friend telepathy. It was that telepathy where they argued by just kicking each other or glaring into each others eyes―it was the telepathy Grace and Lawrence developed and perfected for each other.

Today, to both Grace and Lawrence, now thirteen years old, was just any other Saturday. They were still friends. Nevertheless, most importantly, they were still neighbors.

It was already mid-afternoon; the sun was starting to lessen its intensity on the early fall day. It was one of those days where the conversation had as wide a range as the approaching autumn leaves' colors. On that late fall day, Grace was leaning on her side of the fence while Lawrence leaned on the same fence piece on his side of the fence.

“Hey Grace,” Lawrence started. He tapped the wooden fence with his hand once to get her attention.

“Hey Lawrence,” Grace answered back. Silence.

“You wanna know something?” Lawrence asked.

“What is it?” Grace asked.

“Is it just me, or do you find the idea of the world being invaded by aliens interesting? If you really think about it, the simplest things could become large, even humongous, barriers between us. It could be the simplest of things, kind of like food or language. It could be as complex as our ideas or religion. They could easily be superior to us in almost every aspect thinkable. They could have efficient technology or ideals. They could have a method to annihilate all life on Earth as we speak. On the other hand, they could be below us, with limited knowledge or other considerations of civilization. So, wouldn't it be interesting? Wouldn't it be interesting to compare people to others we don't know much or anything about?” Lawrence asked.

There was about a minute of silence between the two. They have known each other for years, so they both knew Grace had an answer for him.

“Lawrence, stick to reality. What you're taking about is what I call modern entertainment disease. All crazy or insane ideas or events are purely fiction. Of course, that's why they're entertaining. reality is built upon fixed laws. Ideals and fiction, they're all entertaining because you're just bored,” Grace explained to him.

The words hung in the air like clothes out to dry as Lawrence kept leaning on his side of the fence, in silence, trying to figure out how and what direction to steer the conversation in.

“Hey Grace. You wanna know what I think?” Lawrence asked.

“What do you think?” Grace asked him.

“I think you know exactly what to say when you need to say it. That and that you're my neighbor. Neighbors who are friend are always cool,” Lawrence stated. Grace nodded on her side of the fence.

“Get up,” she ushered. She stood as Lawrence shut up. He did it with no hesitation, no regret, and no second thoughts whatsoever.

“I'm carving your initials on my side of the fence. I want you to do the same,” Grace told Lawrence.

“Sure, I can do that,” Lawrence replied. Both Lawrence and Grace grabbed a nearby rock and carved letters into the soft, rotting wood of the fence that split their worlds.

Worlds? Or should it be just world—singular—that they both share?

On the same plank of the same fence of the same world now have two friends initials, etched to be together forever.