Broken Loop

Chapter Twenty-Four: First Shared Memory

He offered the journal. "Let's write that down."

She took it, opened to a clean page, and wrote in violet ink:

> First Shared Memory > Under the oak, we raced the wind until I fell. You caught me before I hit the ground, and I smiled through pain because you were there.

He read over her shoulder, then added beneath:

> Aiden's Note: I remember your grin when I offered you my sleeve. You declared, "Blood is a warrior's badge," and then climbed back on the swing faster than ever.

Jade closed the journal, tears slipping free. "That was the moment I knew you'd always protect me."

He reached out, brushing her hair. "And I knew I'd always need you, the moment you grabbed my hand."

• • •

They settled on the swing: Jade in the seat, Aiden behind pushing gently. The chains creaked in memory. She closed her eyes as he urged the swing higher.

"Remember the cocoon game?" he asked, seeing her swallow.

She nodded. "You'd tuck me in the hammock swing and wrap the blanket around me like a chrysalis."

He slowed the swing until she was level. "And then you'd whisper, 'Aiden, promise me you'll always come back for me.'"

She stared ahead at the sunlit grass, voice small: "I don't think I ever said you had to."

He paused with the swing, voice tender: "But I did."

She leaned back. "You came back—for me, every time."

He climbed onto the swing beside her—the chains groaning under his weight, the wood sagging but holding. They sat side by side, swinging slowly, the breeze lifting Jade's hair, sunlight dappled through leaves.

Jade closed her eyes. "It all started here."

He nodded: "Our first shared memory. Our first promise."

She reached for his hand. "I needed this."

He squeezed her fingers. "Me too."

• • •

They unpacked their picnic under the oak's shade. Sandwiches tasted like childhood: crust buttered with nostalgia, lemonade sparkled on their tongues. They ate slow, letting the garden's whispers fill the silence, weaving new memories into old soil.

After they'd eaten, Jade rose and ran a hand along the swing's chains. Aiden stood, brushing bread crumbs from his jeans.

She turned, eyes bright. "I want to leave something here."

He raised an eyebrow. "Like what?"

She pulled a Polaroid from her pocket—an instant photo of them on the swing from ten years ago: Jade's braids flyaway, Aiden's grin wild in the wind.

She handed it to him. "Let's nail this to the tree."

He found a weathered nail in his bag and gently tapped it into the oak's trunk. She pressed the photo beside it, chain above her head.

"There," she said, stepping back. "So anyone who passes will see that laughter belongs here."

He smiled. "And that we belong here."

They sat back on the swing—one at each side—hands touching midair. The breeze slanted gold across their faces.

"I want to remember this," Jade whispered. "Not just as a baby memory, but as proof we can start again."

He nodded. "Proof that memories aren't gone forever—they can be rediscovered."

She leaned back, head tipped to the sky. "Even if the pages faded, the imprint on our hearts stayed."

He closed his eyes as the swing swayed. "That's what matters."

• • •

They lingered until the sun dipped behind the maple. Shadows stretched long across the garden, and fireflies blinked awake in the dusk. The air cooled, and they packed their things with slow reluctance.

At the gate, Jade paused. She reached for Aiden's hand and pressed their palms together. "Thank you—for this memory."

He wrapped his arm around her shoulder. "Thank you—for trusting me to bring you back here."

She leaned into him. "I feel... lighter."

He kissed the top of her head. "Then let's carry that light forward."

They walked down the gravel drive, the Oak's lantern Polaroid glinting in the fading glow. Each step felt like a bridge—over time's ruins, over lost fragments—into a tomorrow drawn by two hearts in tandem.

At the bottom of the lane, Aiden glanced back. The silhouette of the bungalow and its great oak framed them like an open book.

"Will you come again?" he asked.

She squeezed his hand. "Every Sunday."

He smiled. "Every Sunday."

They turned toward home, carrying a first shared memory that would outlast any loop—a promise sealed in laughter and leaves, written forever under an oak that knew their names.