(This was just randomly thrown together last minute, so...)

The sun was just going down, collecting its last rays from amongst Portelle street. Slowly growing, dimmer and dimmer as it crashed into the vivid reds and oranges of growing dusk.
The cobble-stoned street ran Westward or Eastward, depending on which way you stood. This made it the last the dear sun looked in upon before it gave way to night, and the first it looked in upon when it arose.
A certain house, on this certain street, is the one of interest to us, for it is the home of Mr. Burns. It looked, upon passing, just like every other house around it: tall and thin, tucked in behind a lamp post, right up against its neighbors. The colors varied, one from the other. This particular one was a pastel yellow, contrasting beautifully with its neighbors; a light sky blue to its right, and a deep maroon to its left.
Being neighbors in Portelle street did not mean what it means today. In fact, everyone on the street knew one another. And knew everything about one another. They were close, like family...and indeed, they were, in one manner or another, a sort of family. Though they did not always agree on everything, and while they had their arguments and disputes, it always came around in the end. Peace was, somehow, generally restored.
I would like to say that all of their problems were quick to be fixed, but they did have one fault that never stayed away long. And that would be, gossip.
Now, had you chanced to be around at the time, you would have undoubtedly heard tell of a certain young man.
It had been the talk of the street for two days. And though he did not know, the word of his coming proceeded him. He was, thus, much expected upon his arrival.
I'd like to say that this gossip, for the most part, was harmless. But as it happened, this poor young man could not arrive without having many assumptions attached to his name.
Now, Mrs. Lucy, at the very end of the street, heard from Mr. Burns that his grandson was on his way to stay on with him for a while. Upon questioning him as to his character, the grandfather was quite silent. And as soon as he had gone, Mrs. Lucy began to wonder. Now, for those inclined to gossip, you must not wonder. For as it happened, her wondering turned to conviction, and it wasn't long before a story came out.
Upon visiting her neighbor Mrs. Wile, she related that Mr. Burns had a grandson coming to visit who was in a bad way, and just wanted money.
Mrs. Wile took that to mean that he was a criminal from another country, and was now back and wanting to live off his grandfather's funds.
And it went down from there, till each and every house on Portelle street had a different story.
So it was, that upon the morning of his arrival, some closed and locked their doors in fear, others peered from their windows with curiosity, and some took it upon themselves to be with poor Mr. Burns while he met his grandson after such a long and unpleasant absence. Only one went on with his everyday life. The grandfather himself.
As it was, the poor grandson received a very sad welcome, and thought Portelle street to be very strange indeed.