The morning Adrian Raymond was to leave Sunderglen felt wrong from the moment the sun rose.
Even the sky seemed reluctant, hanging heavy with the bruised colors of a coming storm. Birds chirped quietly, as if mourning something they did not understand.
Inside his grandmother's farmhouse, Adrian tossed clothes into his suitcase with none of the usual neatness drilled into him by private tutors and house staff. His little hands shook, anger and helplessness swirling inside his chest like a growing storm.
He didn't want to go.
Not now.
Not yet.
Not when Rosaline Frank still had that fragile smile on her face last night — the kind that made him want to stay forever.
He slammed the suitcase shut, startling his grandmother.
"Adrian—"
"It's not fair!" he snapped. "I just got here! Why do they always do this to me? Why do they get to decide everything?"
His grandmother sighed, smoothing his hair with gentle fingers. "Your father thinks he knows what's best for your future."
"But what about my present?" Adrian whispered. "What about the things that matter now?"
His grandmother didn't answer.
She didn't have to.
The Raymonds never cared about the present.
Only their legacy.
A loud honk echoed from outside — the family's black car waiting by the gate.
Adrian's heart clamped in his chest.
He hadn't seen Rosaline yet today.
He had to see her. He needed to.
He bolted out the door, his grandmother calling his name behind him.
Feet pounding, air burning his lungs, he ran straight toward the only place Rosaline could ever be in the morning — the banyan tree.
But when he reached it, he stopped dead.
Rosaline was already there.
Sitting on the exposed roots, hugging her knees, face hidden.
Like she'd been waiting.
Like she'd known.
Adrian approached slowly, chest tight. "Rosie?"
She didn't look up. "You're leaving today."
He felt the stab of guilt. "I didn't want to."
"It doesn't matter," she said softly. "You still are."
Her voice…
It wasn't angry.
It wasn't cold.
It was worse.
It was resigned.
Accepting.
As if she had long learned not to hope for too much.
Adrian's throat tightened painfully. "Rosaline, look at me."
She did.
And he wished she hadn't.
Her eyes were rimmed in red, lashes clumped together from dried tears. It made something sharp and unfamiliar twist inside him — an ache too big for a ten-year-old boy.
"I told you yesterday," he said weakly. "I promised I'll come back."
"And I told you," she whispered, "that promises from people like you don't last."
He flinched.
"That's not true."
"It is," she said. "City people leave. City people forget. City people move on."
"I won't!"
"You already did."
Adrian blinked hard. "What?"
She lifted her wrist.
The bracelet he had given her glimmered in the morning light — but there was a problem.
One of the links was broken.
"I tried wearing it all night," she murmured. "But it broke as soon as your car stopped at the gate this morning."
A chill ran up Adrian's spine.
It felt like a sign.
A warning.
A tiny omen that their childhood bond wasn't strong enough to survive the world they would grow into.
"Rosie…" He stepped closer. "I can fix it."
"It's not the bracelet that needs fixing," she whispered. "It's us."
The finality in her voice made him panic.
Without thinking, he grabbed her hand.
"Come with me."
She jerked back, shocked. "What?"
"Come with me!" Adrian repeated, voice breathless. "To the city. You can stay with my grandmother. I'll talk to my father. I'll— I'll convince him!"
She stared at him, eyes widening with something between awe and disbelief.
Then she shook her head.
"Adrian… I'm eight."
"And I'm ten," he said stubbornly, puffing his chest. "We can still go."
She let out a shaky laugh — one that wasn't really a laugh at all.
"You're forgetting something."
"What?"
She stepped back, pointing at herself.
"I'm Rosaline Frank. My father is a schoolteacher. My mother makes clay pots. We barely earn enough for books."
She pointed at him.
"And you're Adrian Raymond. Your family owns half of the city."
The words were soft.
But they cut.
"We're from different worlds," she finished.
He hated that.
Hated how true it sounded.
Adrian's breathing quickened. "Then I'll stay here! I'll tell my father I'm not going back—"
"That won't work."
"Why not?"
"Because your father doesn't even listen to your mother. Why would he listen to you?" she asked sadly.
He fell silent.
Because she was right.
Tears burned behind his eyes. "Rosie… don't give up on me."
She looked devastated. "Adrian, it's not you I'm giving up on. It's the world you belong to."
The words hurt in ways he couldn't explain.
Behind him, the sound of footsteps approached — the driver calling, "Young Master Adrian, we must leave now."
Rosaline stiffened.
Adrian grabbed her hand again. "Rosaline, please…"
She slowly pulled her hand away.
The loss of her warmth felt like losing an entire season.
"Go, Adrian," she whispered. "Before your father gets angry."
"I don't care if he gets angry!"
"But I do," she said.
Her voice shook. "I care what happens to you. The world you come from… it's not kind to boys who break rules."
The car honked again.
Adrian looked at her as if memorizing every freckle, every strand of hair moved by the wind, every crack in her breaking heart.
"I'll write," he whispered.
She smiled quietly. "I know you want to."
"But you don't think I will."
She didn't answer.
He took a step closer, mind racing. "Then you write to me! I'll wait for your letters."
Rosaline's smile disappeared.
"My parents won't let me send letters to the city. They say it makes us look desperate."
It was like every path to her was closing, blocked by invisible walls built by adults.
Adrian felt powerless.
And he hated it.
The driver called again, louder.
Rosaline lowered her gaze. "Goodbye, Adrian."
His heart cracked.
Not loudly.
Not dramatically.
Quietly — the way foundations crumble long before buildings collapse.
He opened his mouth, desperate to say something — anything — that could hold her a little longer.
But nothing came.
Instead, Rosaline turned and ran toward the village.
Her braid flew behind her like a trailing goodbye banner.
Adrian watched her leave.
Watched the girl he loved run away from him because the world made it impossible for them to run toward each other.
His grandmother touched his shoulder gently. "Come, child."
Adrian let her lead him.
Feet heavy.
Heart heavier.
At the car door, he turned back one last time.
Rosaline was no longer visible.
Just the banyan tree.
Silent.
Massive.
Carrying their memories in its roots.
As the car rolled forward, Adrian pressed his forehead against the window, eyes stinging.
He whispered the words only the wind could hear:
"I'll come back for you, Rosaline Frank…
and next time, I won't let anything take you away."
But childhood promises were fragile things.
And the world ahead was waiting to test every single one.