Chapter 1 — The Invitation

Rowan

The soft hum of fluorescent lights filled the quiet office, broken only by the rhythmic scratch of Rowan Calloway’s pen against paper. His hand moved deftly, sketching precise lines on the blueprint spread before him. The image of a sleek modernist home was beginning to take shape, each detail meticulously plotted, each angle measured twice. Rowan’s deep blue eyes, narrowed in concentration, flicked between the paper and the silver architect’s compass poised in his other hand.

The clock on the wall ticked past midnight. Rowan registered the time but dismissed it. The stillness of the office—the controlled, predictable order of it—was his sanctuary, a refuge from the unpredictable messiness of the world outside. The city murmured faintly in the background, the sharp edges of its noise dulled by the thick glass windows. He adjusted his chair, the faint creak of leather breaking the silence as his leather loafers tapped against the polished floor. He inhaled the familiar scent of paper and ink, steadying himself in the rhythm of his work.

A sharp knock at the door shattered the calm. Rowan paused, his pen hovering mid-stroke. His gaze shifted to the secretary’s empty desk visible through the glass wall of his office. No one should have been here this late. Another knock came, followed by the soft creak of the door opening.

“Late night again, Mr. Calloway? Got your mail here,” Henry, the building’s night janitor, announced gruffly, holding up a small stack of envelopes.

Rowan exhaled, steadying the slight irritation at the interruption. “Thanks, Henry,” he replied evenly, his voice calm but subdued.

Henry gave a quick nod, setting the bundle on the edge of Rowan’s desk. “Don’t work too hard now,” he added before retreating quietly, his footsteps fading into the hallway.

Rowan’s eyes lingered on the stack of mail for a moment but then turned back to his work. The allure of precision beckoned him—angles to measure, lines to refine. Yet, the stack tugged at his peripheral vision, the envelopes resting like unanswered questions. With a reluctant sigh, he set his compass and pen down, aligning them neatly beside the blueprint. Order first, always.

His fingers sifted through the envelopes—utility bills, a glossy catalog from a drafting supplies company, and a flyer for an upcoming architectural conference. Methodical movements, brisk and deliberate. Then his hand slowed.

A thick ivory envelope rested at the bottom of the pile, its edges slightly worn as if it had been handled too many times. Rowan’s name and address were printed in elegant cursive, and faintly embossed on the back was a pine tree encircled by a faded sunburst.

His breath hitched, a faint tightness forming in his chest. Whispering Pines Summer Camp.

The sterile white walls of the office fell away. He was back in the woods—lush, dense, and alive. The lake’s surface shimmered under the sun, and the scent of pine needles mingled with the smoky tang of bonfires. The creak of the old dock underfoot and the distant hum of cicadas filled the air. Laughter echoed faintly, carrying the cadence of voices and memories from a lifetime ago.

Rowan blinked hard, shaking his head as if to escape the pull of the memory. His fingers tightened around the envelope as he carefully tore it open. The paper was soft under his touch, releasing a neatly folded invitation.

Fifteen-Year Reunion.

The words danced before his eyes. His high school class was gathering at the town’s community center, an event designed to reconnect people who had long since scattered to chase their separate dreams. Rowan stared at the date and time—next Friday.

Instinct told him to toss it into the trash. He didn’t do reunions. He had no interest in rehashing old stories with faces he barely remembered, or smiling politely as they asked about his life and career. Yet, his gaze lingered on the embossed camp logo in the corner of the invitation. The knot in his chest tightened.

Whispering Pines.

He hadn’t let himself think of the camp in years. The memories were too tangled, too loud. It was the one place where everything had felt different—where the weight of being the responsible one had lifted, even briefly. It was there, beneath the sun-dappled trees and starry skies, that he’d met her.

Sienna.

Her name rose unbidden, a whisper in the quiet office. Auburn hair catching the sunlight, a teasing smile that had made his heart trip over itself, and those hazel eyes—bright and full of a world he’d never dared to explore. He hadn’t spoken her name in years, hadn’t needed to. She was part of a chapter he didn’t revisit, a closed book filed neatly away in the recesses of his mind.

But now the book had cracked open, and her image pressed against the edges of his thoughts. She hadn’t just been part of that summer. She’d been the firebrand, the catalyst. The one who made the endless days hum with possibility. And the one who’d left.

Rowan sat perfectly still, the invitation open in his hands. The air felt heavier somehow, his carefully constructed world shifting under its weight. He had spent years building a life free from the wild, unpredictable emotions of his youth. He’d crafted order, stability, and precision into his professional and personal life. And yet, the thought of Whispering Pines gnawed at him, pulling at a part of himself he thought he had buried.

Unable to resist, Rowan reached for the bottom drawer of his desk. It stuck at first—he rarely opened it—but with a firm tug, it gave way. Inside, tucked beneath a stack of old architectural journals, was something he kept hidden from everyone, even himself.

The bracelet.

Faded threads of red, green, and blue wove together in a simple, uneven pattern. The edges were frayed, the colors dulled by time, but it remained intact. Sienna had made it for him that last summer, tying it around his wrist with a flourish and a laugh. “So you don’t forget me,” she’d said, her voice light but her eyes serious.

He hadn’t forgotten.

Rowan ran his thumb over the bracelet, the texture rough yet familiar against his skin. A memory surfaced—Sienna’s hands, quick and confident, knotting the threads together as the sun set behind her. A younger Rowan had watched her in silence, wishing he could capture the moment and hold onto it forever. He’d kept the bracelet all these years, buried deep but never discarded. Regret? Longing? He couldn’t name it, but it had kept him tethered to something he couldn’t let go of.

The invitation lay on his desk, its stark white paper a quiet challenge against the dark wood. Rowan stared at it, a mental tug-of-war unfolding. He could stay here in his predictable life, where every decision was measured, every emotion neatly filed away. Or he could go—risk the unpredictable, the uncomfortable, the unfinished.

A warm breeze off the lake, the sound of laughter and splashing water, and Sienna’s voice, teasing and full of life. The memory hit him again, and he felt the ache of it, the pull of something unresolved.

Rowan exhaled slowly, setting the bracelet down next to the invitation. His gaze steadied.

He picked up the invitation, folded it neatly, and slid it back into its envelope. Placing it in the drawer alongside the bracelet, he closed it softly. His hands rested on the desk for a moment, the weight of his decision settling over him.

For better or worse, it was time to go back.