Prologue

The morning was pleasant, mild with a teasing warmth that hinted at a summer that hadn’t quite arrived—shorts would have to wait for another day. Before setting off, she paused at the edge of the yard, lifted her chin to the sky, and closed her eyes. The sun kissed her cheeks with soft, golden warmth, and behind her eyelids, a kaleidoscope of color danced—reds, oranges, and sparks of violet flickering like a miniature carnival. She twirled in place, arms outstretched, the hem of her shirt fluttering as she windmilled across the yard with carefree abandon, head thrown back in laughter, heart already half in the woods.

Today, she could feel it deep in her bones—was going to be a good day. One of the best.

She gathered her things: a weathered plastic pail packed neatly with wrapped peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, a bag of their favorite chips, two glass bottles of Pepsi clinking gently together, the old metal bottle opener tucked in beside them, and her trusty pink Barbie fishing rod. With a final glance back at the house, she set off toward the tree line.

Sometimes he waited for her. Other times—like today—he’d gone ahead, letting her sleep in while the world quietly unfolded in silver light.

Her small feet, clad in dusty white Keds, padded over the forest floor. Dew still clung to the moss, cool and damp beneath her soles, and the sun had only just begun its climb, filtering through the trees in shimmering shafts that painted the woods in glowing planes of light. Shadows draped themselves loosely across the path, ragged silhouettes shifting gently with the breeze. She knew the way by heart, weaving between trunks and ducking beneath branches, until the trees opened and the clearing welcomed her.

There lay the lake, its glassy surface barely stirred, still cloaked in the breath of morning mist. She’d spent what felt like a thousand days here—fishing, swimming, paddling, and skating when the ice came. It was a lake for all seasons, but spring was her favorite. These early morning hours with him—cool, hushed, timeless—were her secret treasure.

Sometimes they talked: he'd ask about school, her friends, what she'd build with her Legos next. Sometimes she asked about the fish—what they felt, where they went in winter. But often, they simply sat in comfortable silence, lines cast, sandwiches slowly unwrapped with a gentle crinkle of waxed paper, the lake lapping quietly at the shore. They called it"first lunch”, with a co-conspiratorial giggle. There was always a second one waiting back home, hunger stirred by hours outdoors. The best days ended with sunburned noses, empty buckets, and full hearts.

She stepped into the