The Carter limousine rolled through the quiet suburban street of Marlowe Heights, its polished body reflecting the golden shimmer of the afternoon sun. Inside, a ten-year-old boy pressed his face against the tinted glass, his eyes wide with wonder as houses, gardens, and trees slipped past like scenes from a dream.
Edward Carter had never visited a friend's house before—at least, not one that didn't belong to his parents' social circle. This was different. His best friend, **Francis Vincent**, had invited him over after school to "hang out." It sounded simple, but to Edward, whose life had always been guarded by chauffeurs, nannies, and polite formalities, it felt like an adventure.
The car stopped in front of a cream-colored two-story house framed by blooming hibiscus. The air smelled of cut grass and something freshly baked. Edward's heart raced. He grabbed his backpack and stepped out, squinting under the sunlight.
Francis burst through the front door before the driver could ring the bell.
"Edward! You made it!" he shouted, his grin bright enough to make the world feel lighter.
Edward smiled back. "I told you I would. Wow—your house looks awesome."
"Come on, Mom made snacks. You've got to try her cookies—they're the best."
They darted inside, leaving the driver behind. The Vincent home wasn't grand, not by Carter standards, but it felt alive. Laughter drifted from the kitchen. The scent of butter and vanilla clung to the air. Toys were scattered in one corner of the living room, and a painting of a sunrise hung above the couch. It was messy in a warm, human way—a kind of comfort Edward's marble mansion never had.
From the kitchen, a woman's gentle voice called, "Francis, did your friend arrive?"
"Yes, Mom!" Francis yelled. "This is Edward!"
Mrs. Vincent appeared, her apron dusted with flour. "Welcome, sweetheart. It's so nice to finally meet you." She wiped her hands and smiled at the boy with a mother's warmth that Edward didn't realize he'd missed.
"Thank you, ma'am," Edward replied politely.
Before Mrs. Vincent could say more, a small giggle echoed from the hallway—a soft, musical sound like wind chimes. Edward turned.
A little girl peeked from behind the doorway, clutching a rag doll with tangled yarn hair. Her big hazel eyes studied him curiously, framed by lashes that fluttered like butterfly wings. Her curls were tied with a pink ribbon, slightly crooked. She couldn't have been more than five.
Francis noticed his friend's gaze. "Oh, that's **Freda**—my little sister." He motioned to her. "Hey, Freddy, don't be shy! Say hi."
Freda hesitated, then stepped into the light. "Hi," she said softly, her voice barely above a whisper.
Edward blinked. Something in his chest skipped. He didn't know what the feeling was—just that it was new, strange, and warm all at once. He'd seen girls before, but never one who made the world seem quieter when she smiled.
"Hi," he replied, awkwardly waving. "I'm Edward."
Freda smiled shyly and clutched her doll tighter. "You want cookie?" she asked, holding out a small plate with a single cookie—crumbled at the edges, clearly one she'd half-eaten herself.
Francis groaned. "Freda! That's yours!"
But Edward only grinned. "Sure," he said gently, taking the plate. "Thank you."
The girl's eyes lit up like stars. "It's choco-chip!" she announced proudly.
He took a bite, pretending to savor it like a gourmet delicacy. "Best cookie ever," he said, and she giggled—a sound that seemed to carve itself into his heart.
Mrs. Vincent chuckled. "Looks like you've won her over, Edward. She doesn't share her cookies with just anyone."
Edward glanced at Freda again, his smile softening. Something inside him whispered that he wanted to keep seeing that smile. Every day, if possible.
---
That afternoon stretched like a golden thread through time. The boys built toy cars, played soccer in the yard, and made mud castles that Mrs. Vincent made them wash off before dinner. Freda followed them everywhere, trailing behind with her doll, asking endless questions. Sometimes she tugged at Edward's sleeve to show him her drawings or the family's ginger cat asleep by the window.
When it was time to leave, the sky had turned amber and lilac. The car waited outside, engine humming softly. Edward turned to Francis. "Thanks for having me, man. Your house… feels like home."
Francis beamed. "You can come anytime."
Then Freda ran forward, her small hands holding something wrapped in a ribbon—two candy bars. She offered them to him, her cheeks flushed. "For you," she said. "So you don't forget me."
Edward crouched down, eyes warm. "I won't forget you," he said. He took one candy and slipped the other back into her palm. "One for you, so you don't forget me either."
Her tiny fingers curled around it, and she nodded solemnly. "Okay."
The driver called, and Edward stood, reluctant to go. As the car door closed, he glanced back through the window. Freda was waving, her curls glowing in the dying sunlight, Francis beside her.
Edward didn't know what love was—not yet. But as the car pulled away, he touched the candy bar in his pocket and whispered her name under his breath.
"Freda."
Years later, he would remember that moment—the scent of vanilla cookies, the sound of her laugh, the warmth that bloomed in his chest.
He would remember, even when distance, loss, and time tried to erase it.
Because sometimes, the heart doesn't forget the one it's meant to wait for.