The village of Sunderglen always woke slowly, like a sleepy child reluctantly opening its eyes. Morning sun spilled across the fields in soft gold, lighting up the gentle curve of the river that flowed past the old banyan tree. The tree stood there like a guardian—ancient, steady, and silent—watching over the tiny world beneath its branches.
It was under this tree that Adrian Raymond, age ten, found freedom.
He kicked off his polished black shoes the moment the car disappeared down the dusty road. His grandmother's housekeeper sighed in defeat—Adrian was impossible to control once he reached the village.
A boy raised in marble mansions, surrounded by private tutors and the suffocating expectations of the Raymond family… yet here, he was just Adrian. Barefoot, messy, and glowing with life.
And running toward him, braid swinging wildly, was the only person who could match him.
Rosaline Frank.
She was eight—skin sun-kissed from playing outside, eyes the color of warm earth, and a laugh that spread like wildfire. Whenever Adrian saw her, something inside him loosened, as though her presence untied knots he didn't even realize he carried.
"Adrian! You came back!" she shouted, nearly tripping over her own feet in her excitement.
She crashed into him with a hug, their laughter echoing under the banyan's thick canopy.
"I promised I would," he said, straightening his shirt in mock seriousness. "A Raymond always keeps his promises."
Rosaline made a face. "Last time you said that, you left early and didn't even say goodbye to me."
"That wasn't my fault." He huffed. "My mother decided to take me back suddenly."
Rosaline folded her arms. "You still didn't write."
Adrian looked away, cheeks warming. "Father says letters distract me from my studies."
She stepped closer, lowering her voice. "Then… you can write to me secretly."
He grinned. "Maybe I will."
It was in moments like these that the complicated world of adults disappeared. Rosaline made him feel like a child again, the way he wished he could be all the time.
They ran through the fields until their legs burned. They caught dragonflies. They argued about who could climb higher. They skipped stones on the riverbank. Everything felt endless and bright.
At noon, they sat under the banyan tree eating mangoes, juice dripping down their chins.
"Adrian," Rosaline said suddenly, scraping her nails against the bark. "Do you like the city?"
He shrugged. "It's big. Loud. Busy. Everyone wants something from you."
"And here?"
He looked at her… really looked at her.
At the innocent curve of her smile, the simplicity in her eyes, the trust in her voice.
"Here feels like home."
Rosaline blinked in surprise, then smiled so brightly it almost hurt to look at.
But joy never lasted long in Adrian's world.
As the afternoon sun dipped lower, a shadow approached from the village path—his grandmother, carrying a letter sealed in the Raymond crest.
"Adrian," she said softly, placing a hand on his shoulder. "Your parents have sent for you. You must return to the city tomorrow morning."
Rosaline froze.
Adrian's entire body stiffened. "But I just got here! I was supposed to stay the whole summer!"
"I know, child," his grandmother whispered. "But your father insists. Something about your tutors and exam schedules."
Rosaline took a small step backward, the color draining from her face.
"No," Adrian said, shaking his head. "Tell him I'm not going. Tell him—"
"You know I can't."
Silence fell like a heavy curtain.
Rosaline turned away, staring at the ground. "So… you're leaving again."
"Rosie—"
"It's fine." Her voice trembled. "You always leave."
Adrian felt something sharp twist inside him. He hated this feeling. Hated leaving her. Hated how small and helpless he felt in front of his father's demands.
He reached for her wrist gently. "Come with me to the banyan. Please."
She hesitated… then nodded.
They walked in silence. Evening wind rustled the leaves above them, carrying the faint scent of monsoon rain.
Adrian sat first. Rosaline stood beneath the tree, arms hanging at her sides.
"I'm sorry," he whispered.
She didn't respond.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small silver bracelet—a delicate chain with a tiny charm shaped like a crescent moon.
"I bought this in the city," he said. "I wanted to give it to you when I came."
Rosaline stared at it, unsure.
"May I?" Adrian asked.
Slowly, she extended her arm. He clasped the bracelet around her wrist, letting his fingers linger a moment longer than necessary.
"It's my promise," he said.
"That I'll come back.
That I won't forget you.
Not even for a day."
Her throat moved as she swallowed. "People like you don't remember people like me."
Adrian looked offended. "You're not 'people.' You're Rosaline. My Rosaline."
Her breath hitched.
The world slowed.
Even the wind seemed to hold its breath.
A quiet vulnerability filled Adrian's eyes that Rosaline had never noticed before—like he wasn't a Raymond heir, not a rich boy, not someone meant for another world. Just a boy looking at a girl like she mattered more than everything he was supposed to become.
"You'll come back?" she whispered.
"Always."
She smiled softly—the small, trembling smile of someone who wanted to believe him so badly it hurt.
The sun dipped low behind the hills, spilling red light over them like a blessing.
Two children, two hearts, one ancient tree keeping witness.
Rosaline rested her head on his shoulder.
Adrian closed his eyes, memorizing the weight of her against him, the sound of her breath, the warmth of her presence.
He didn't know then—
that this was the beginning of a love that would shape their entire lives.
A love too deep for childhood.
Too fragile for fate.
Too powerful to forget.
Under the banyan tree, with fireflies glowing like scattered stars, Adrian whispered again:
"I'll come back for you, Rosaline Frank. No matter what."
He meant it.
He truly meant it.
But promises made under childhood skies are often the first to break.