Broken Loop

Chapter Twenty-Four: First Shared Memory

A pale morning sun filtered through the cotton curtains as Jade Hartman stirred beneath the covers, the soft scent of lavender drifting from the windowsill. She opened her eyes to find Aiden standing in the doorway, hands tucked into his coat pockets, a mixture of hope and trepidation in his gaze.

"I've got an idea," he said, voice low enough that she might dream it.

She sat up, tucking tangled hair behind her ear. "Oh?"

He crossed the room and sat on the edge of her bed. "We've built so many rituals to stitch new memories, but... I want to go back, just once, to where it all began."

Her brow furrowed. "The apartment?"

He smiled softly. "No. Childhood home. Maplewood Heights."

A quiet beat. She swung her legs over the side of the bed. "That place has ghosts."

"Not ghosts. Footprints." He reached out, brushing her hand. "I want us to sit under the old oak swing together—our first memory."

Her throat tightened. "That swing... I haven't been back since Grandma died."

He stood, pressing his palm to her back. "Then let's go today. For you, for us."

She hesitated, then nodded. "Okay."

• • •

They packed a small cooler—sandwiches on crusty bread, lemonade in glass bottles, a tart apple and a handful of almonds each—slung on a faded backpack. Aiden grabbed his grandmother's green–leather journal; Jade carried the Mirror Journal, its pages brimming with reclaimed memories.

The drive was a quiet half-hour through winding roads framed by budding maples and spring daffodils. As they turned onto Maplewood Lane, the familiar silhouette of their grandparents' bungalow emerged: shutters painted seafoam, porch railings scarred by decades of sun and rain, ivy creeping up one column.

Jade exhaled. "It looks smaller."

Aiden nodded. "We were giants here."

They parked at the gravel drive—pitted and overgrown in places—and approached the front door, where a wreath of dried daisies still clung to the knocker. The wood beneath the paint was weathered, but the brass mail slot gleamed.

Jade lifted her hand to knock, then paused. A moment of hesitation rippled across her features—memories, fragile and raw, coursing through her mind.

Aiden slipped a hand into hers. "We'll be okay."

She closed her eyes, took a steadying breath, and tapped lightly.

No answer. The house had long since been sold. But the back gate—the gate to the yard—stood ajar.

They slipped inside through the side gate, grass crunching underfoot. The garden was wild now: rosebushes tangled with honeysuckle, the stone path cracked by resilient weeds. In the center, the old oak spread its arms wide, leaves whispering secrets. And hanging from its lowest branch, the swing—chains rusted, the wooden seat faded gray—still swung gently in the breeze.

Jade exhaled, tears shining. "There it is."

Aiden wiped his cheek. "We made a lot of memories here."

She stepped forward, fingers grazing the swing's worn edge. "I remember the day I learned to pump."

He grinned. "You were so determined—and then you face-planted into the grass."

She laughed through tears. "You ran to me, covered in dirt, and bandaged my scraped knee with your sleeve."