In the quiet, forgotten corner of a dimly lit laundry room, there existed a sock. Not a pair of socks—just one. A lone, emotionally unstable sock named Gerald. Gerald was once proudly part of a matching duo, but fate, as cruel and unpredictable as a cat on caffeine, had separated him from his partner during the Great Washing Machine Spin Cycle of ’24. Gerald spent his days lying limply on top of the dryer, contemplating the mysteries of life—such as why fabric softener smells like artificial happiness, why humans insist on folding clothes that will inevitably become wrinkled again, and most importantly, why dryers eat socks but never return them. Some say the dryer leads to a parallel universe of single socks. Others believe socks are abducted by tiny, fashion-forward aliens desperate for stylish footwear. Gerald wasn’t sure, but he suspected the lint trap knew more than it was letting on. Every morning at exactly 7:13 AM, a sunbeam would shine through the dusty window and hit Gerald