Chapter 1 — Prologue: The Lakehouse Bond
Third Person
The night at the lakehouse was still, the kind of quiet that carried its own melody—a soft, unspoken harmony woven from the gentle rustle of pine trees, the distant chirp of crickets, and the faint lapping of water against the dock. The air smelled of damp earth and wood, mingled with a faint trace of bonfire smoke from a neighbor’s yard. Above, a lone star blinked in the ink-black sky, its reflection rippling faintly on the surface of the lake like a fleeting promise.
Twelve-year-old Christian Russo sat cross-legged on the creaky wooden dock, his silver guitar pick necklace dangling from his neck. It felt cool against his chest, the faint engraving catching the stray beams of moonlight. He didn’t know it then, but this unassuming trinket, much like the girl sitting beside him, would become a permanent part of who he was.
Charlie Bennett perched on the edge of the dock, her legs dangling over the water, toes skimming the cool surface. Her light brown hair caught hints of silver from the moonlight, curling softly at the ends and brushing the collar of her oversized sweatshirt. She hugged her knees to her chest, her hazel eyes fixed on the horizon as though she could see beyond the trees, beyond the lake, beyond the small-town life that felt both comforting and confining.
“You ever think about what it’s really like out there?” she asked softly, breaking the stillness. Her voice, steady yet laced with curiosity, carried a weight that seemed too heavy for their years.
Christian tilted his head, a lock of dark hair falling into his piercing green eyes. “Out where?”
“Out in the world. Cities. Stages. People who know your name because they’ve heard your music—not just because you sat behind them in geometry class or got ketchup on their fries in the cafeteria.” She smiled faintly, her gaze flicking to him. “Out there.”
Christian leaned back, resting his palms against the worn wooden planks. His eyes drifted to the stars. “I think about it all the time,” he admitted, his voice quiet, as though confessing a secret. “I think about playing in front of thousands of people. Making them feel something. Like... maybe a song could fix things for them, even if it’s just for three minutes.”
Charlie shifted, pulling her legs up onto the dock and sitting cross-legged beside him. Her brows knit together in that thoughtful way he’d come to recognize over the years. “It’s more than just three minutes, though, isn’t it?” she said, glancing at him. “A really good song? It’s more like... a piece of someone’s story joining yours. It stays with you forever.”
He turned to her then, his green eyes locking onto her hazel ones. For a moment, he said nothing, the weight of her words settling over him like the distant hum of a melody waiting to be fully written. “Yeah,” he said at last, his voice softer now. “Exactly.”
For a while, they sat in comfortable silence, the kind that only came with years of knowing someone. Fireflies blinked lazily across the shoreline, their faint glow flickering like whispers of light against the night. The dock creaked beneath their weight, its rhythm steady, grounding.
Charlie leaned forward, reaching into the pocket of her sweatshirt. “Hey,” she said, pulling out a small silver object. She held it out to him, her fingers brushing his palm as she placed it in his hand.
Christian looked down at the guitar pick, its smooth surface cool against his skin. The faint engraving of a musical note shimmered under the moonlight, its edges catching the faint glow. “What’s this for?” he asked, turning it over in his fingers.
“For when you become a real rock star,” she said, her teasing tone softened by the sincerity in her eyes. “You’ll need it. Trust me.”
“Charlie...” He trailed off, his throat tightening. He rubbed his thumb over the engraving, the weight of the gesture far heavier than the object itself. Thoughts of his father’s absence and his own insecurities flickered at the edges of his mind. “You didn’t have to—”
“I wanted to,” she interrupted, her voice firm but kind. For a moment, a flicker of hesitation crossed her face, as though she wasn’t sure how much her words might mean to him. “I believe in you, Christian. Always have.”
Christian swallowed hard, his gaze flicking between the pick and Charlie’s steady expression. He felt a warmth in his chest that he didn’t yet have the words to articulate. “Thanks,” he said quietly, his voice barely more than a whisper. “I’ll keep it forever.”
She smiled—a little lopsided, entirely genuine. “You better. I don’t give out gifts like this to just anyone, you know.”
Christian chuckled, the sound low and warm, but there was a flicker of something deeper in his chest. “Guess I’m special, then.”
“Guess you are.” Her smile widened, but her hazel eyes softened with something unspoken. She reached over and tugged at the chain around his neck. “Give me that,” she said, motioning for him to take it off.
He blinked at her but obeyed, sliding the thin chain over his head and handing it to her. Without a word, she slipped the silver guitar pick onto the chain and handed it back.
“There,” she said as he put it back on. “Now it’s official.”
Christian touched the pick where it rested against his chest, feeling its weight settle over his heartbeat. He looked at her, his lips parting as if to say something, but the words caught in his throat. Instead, he nodded, his expression a mixture of gratitude and something deeper he didn’t yet have the courage to understand.
“Hey,” Charlie said suddenly, brightening as though an idea had struck her. “You know what we should do?”
“What?”
She scrambled to her feet, motioning for him to follow. “Come on, help me find something to dig with.”
Confused but curious, Christian got up and followed her back to the lakehouse. A few minutes later, they returned to the dock with a rusted trowel and an old shoebox they’d dug out of the attic.
“What’s this for?” he asked as she knelt down, starting to dig a small hole at the base of the dock.
“It’s a time capsule,” she explained, pausing to push her hair out of her face with dirt-smudged fingers. Her hazel eyes sparkled with excitement. “We’ll put stuff in it—things that matter to us now. Then, years from now, we’ll come back and open it together. See how much we’ve changed.”
Christian crouched beside her, watching as the hole took shape. “What kind of stuff?”
“Anything. Something that reminds you of who you are right now. Something you want to remember.”
She glanced at him, her expression softening. “Or something you want to figure out later.”
He hesitated, her words lingering in the air like the faint echo of a song. “What if I don’t know what to put in it?”
“Then put in something that matters anyway.” Her voice was calm, but there was a quiet certainty in it that reassured him.
He nodded and jogged back to the lakehouse. When he returned, he was holding a folded piece of notebook paper, its edges creased from where it had been tucked into his pocket for weeks.
“What’s that?” she asked as he handed it to her.
“Just... something I wrote,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck, his gaze fixed on the ground. His fingers fidgeted at his side, betraying the nervous energy running through him.
Charlie didn’t press further, sensing the weight of whatever was on the paper. She folded it smaller and placed it in the box beside her own contribution—a faded photo of the two of them at the lake, taken by her mom years ago.
Together, they buried the box and patted the earth down over it.
“Promise me,” Charlie said, brushing dirt off her hands, “that no matter what happens, we’ll come back here someday. Together.”
Christian looked at her, the moonlight tracing the edges of her face, her hazel eyes steady and full of belief. He touched the guitar pick resting against his chest, the metal cool beneath his fingertips. “I promise,” he said, his voice steady.
She smiled, her eyes crinkling at the corners. “Good. Now, come on. Let’s go inside before we get eaten alive by mosquitoes.”
He followed her back to the house, but before stepping inside, he glanced back at the dock and the spot where they’d buried the box.
Christian touched the silver pick again, the weight of it grounding him. He didn’t know what the future held, but in that moment, he knew two things for certain: Charlie believed in him, and he would do everything in his power to keep that belief alive.
Even if it meant keeping some things unsaid.
