The days after our Hidden World adventure felt brighter, as if the sun followed us wherever we went. Even ordinary moments—brushing teeth, tying shoes, eating breakfast—felt touched by something special. Kristina carried that energy with her, like she always did, moving through life as if every moment had meaning waiting to be discovered.
She started inventing new games, more elaborate than before. One morning, she declared the living room a "command center." Couch cushions became mountains, the carpet turned into a dangerous ocean, and the hallway was forbidden territory unless you had the "password," which changed every hour. I followed her orders without question, because when Kristina imagined something, it felt real. She spoke with confidence, with certainty, like someone who knew how the world worked—even when the world was made up.
Sometimes she would pause in the middle of play and look at me very seriously. "You have to remember this, Kris," she would say. "Not just the game. How it feels."I didn't fully understand what she meant back then, but I nodded anyway. I trusted her.
We spent long afternoons outside, exploring every corner of the neighborhood. Cracks in the sidewalk became fault lines. Trees became watchtowers. The sound of distant cars was the roar of unseen beasts. Kristina always walked a few steps ahead of me, glancing back to make sure I was still there. If I tripped, she stopped. If I hesitated, she waited. She never said it out loud, but I knew—my safety mattered to her more than the adventure itself.
One day, while we sat under a tree, she started telling me a story about a brother and sister who could travel between worlds. "They're strongest together," she said, drawing shapes in the dirt with a stick. "When they're apart, the world feels heavier. But when they're together, nothing can break them."I asked her how the story ended.She smiled softly. "It doesn't end. It keeps going as long as they remember each other."
At home, things weren't always peaceful. Even as a kid, I could feel tension in the air sometimes, thick and heavy. But Kristina acted like a shield. When voices grew loud, she distracted me. When fear crept in, she turned it into a game. She never explained things—I think she wanted me to stay a child as long as possible.
At night, before sleep, we would lie on the floor and stare at the ceiling, pretending the cracks were constellations. Kristina named them all. "That one's the Guardian," she'd say. "That one's the Traveler. And that one—" she'd point carefully, "—that one watches over us."I believed her completely.
There were moments when Kristina seemed tired in ways I didn't understand. She'd sit quietly sometimes, her eyes distant, her energy dimmed just a little. But if I asked if she was okay, she'd smile and say, "I'm fine. Come on, let's play." And just like that, the light returned.
She was like that—strong even when she shouldn't have had to be.
As time passed, our bond didn't loosen. It tightened. We developed our own language made of looks, gestures, half-finished sentences. We could communicate without speaking. If someone tried to give me something I didn't understand or trust, Kristina was there. If someone spoke cruelly, she stepped in. Even when she was annoyed with me—and she often was—she never stopped protecting me.
I remember one afternoon when someone told me something awful, something no child should hear. I didn't know how to process it. Kristina noticed right away. She pulled me aside, knelt to my level, and looked me straight in the eyes. "Don't listen," she said firmly. "You matter. Your life matters."Her voice didn't shake. Mine did.
That moment stayed with me longer than any game, any story, any adventure.
As we grew, the world around us began to change, slowly, quietly. Responsibilities crept in. Innocence faded in small ways. But Kristina never let the magic disappear completely. She adapted it. Our adventures became less about pretending and more about surviving, about understanding, about holding on to each other.
Even when the days were hard, she found reasons to laugh. Even when I irritated her—asking for her food, her time, her attention—she gave in with a dramatic sigh and an exaggerated, "Fine. Just take it."And I always did.
Looking back now, I realize those moments were building something permanent. The adventures weren't just games. They were lessons. About loyalty. About courage. About love that doesn't need to be spoken to be felt.
Kristina was my constant. My compass. My protector.
And even though I didn't know it then, those childhood days—the laughter, the imagination, the bond—were preparing me for a future where memories would matter more than anything else.
Because some bonds don't fade.They evolve.They endure.They become part of who you are.
And ours was only growing stronger.