Before pixels, before plot—there were beans. A child’s universe built in silence, scattered across shag carpet. This is the story of a stocking stuffer, a quiet smile, and the rarest gift of all: being seen.

A forgotten buffet. Warm, not hot. Plastic plates and beige walls. Sneeze guards, limp carrots, and a jiggling dessert. A place hated for its food, but loved for its moments. Sometimes the worst meals hold the best memories. A love letter to the oddest kind of nostalgia.

Before there were open roads, there was the driveway—our childhood runway, our front-row seat to growing up, and the silent witness to every goodbye we didn’t know would matter. In this episode, Bunny explores the emotional echoes of cracked pavement and porch light promises in a love letter to a place that quietly held it all.

He wasn’t my real uncle. But he was always there—pipe in hand, socks to the calves, mowing wisdom into the world one perfect edge at a time. In this episode, Bunny remembers the neighborly sage who made summers slower, problems smaller, and childhood feel just a little more like a sitcom with a heart.

It was never just cloth. It was a quiet gesture, folded in readiness. A signal that someone had your back—without needing to say a word. This is a story about fatherhood, softness, and the small things we carry long after they're gone.

Every life is a romance...don't forget to love it back.