THE BOY FROM SUMMER
1651 Words
I didn’t sleep that night.
Not properly.
Every time I closed my eyes, I saw the lake.
The silver medal.
The boy Lucien had loved when he was ten.
And that promise.
I’ll come back.
It followed me into my dreams and waited for me when I woke.
By Sunday morning, I was exhausted.
I sat at the breakfast table with a cup of coffee I didn’t want, staring at the same piece of toast for nearly ten minutes.
Lucien sat across from me.
He hadn’t said much since we returned from the lake.
Neither had I.
Every time our eyes met, I looked away.
Because I was afraid of what I might see.
Or worse..
what he might see in me.
Eventually, Lucien placed his cup down.
“Elias.”
I looked up.
“We need to talk.”
My stomach dropped.
“About yesterday?”
“Yes.”
I swallowed.
“Okay.”
He looked around the dining hall.
It was nearly empty.
Then he stood.
“Come with me.”
I followed him.
We walked through the academy without speaking.
He led me toward the old east wing, past classrooms that weren’t being used on weekends.
Eventually, we reached a narrow corridor overlooking the lake.
There was a wooden bench beneath one of the windows.
Lucien sat.
I remained standing.
He looked at me.
“Sit.”
I sat beside him.
For several seconds, neither of us spoke.
Then he said:
“The boy I told you about.”
I waited.
“His name was Elias.”
My heart stopped.
I stared at him.
He didn’t look away.
“What?”
“His name was Elias.”
I laughed.
Not because it was funny.
Because my mind couldn’t process anything else.
“There are probably thousands of people named Elias.”
“I know.”
“So...”
I swallowed.
“Why are you telling me?”
“Because it was you.”
The world became very quiet.
I stared at him.
He stared back.
“No.”
His expression didn’t change.
“No?”
“No.”
“You don’t even remember.”
“I remember enough to know that wasn’t me.”
“You don’t.”
“I would remember.”
Lucien’s eyes softened.
“You were ten.”
“So?”
“You’ve forgotten most of it.”
“I haven’t.”
“You have.”
His voice wasn’t accusing.
That made it worse.
“I would remember meeting you.”
“You did.”
“I would remember the lake.”
“You remember pieces.”
“The chocolate.”
“Yes.”
I went still.
“The medal.”
“Yes.”
“The boy.”
“Yes.”
I stared at him.
“How do you know about the chocolate?”
His eyes held mine.
“Because you gave me half.”
I couldn’t breathe.
He continued.
“You were sitting beneath the apple tree beside the boathouse.”
I closed my eyes.
And suddenly, I was there.
Sunlight.
Leaves moving above me.
The smell of lake water.
A boy sitting on the ground.
His knee was bleeding.
My hand holding chocolate.
I opened my eyes.
Lucien was still there.
“That’s not possible.”
“It is.”
“The apple tree...”
His expression changed.
“You remember?”
“Not really.”
I pressed my fingers against my temple.
“It’s just...”
“What?”
“A picture.”
Lucien nodded.
“There was an old boathouse.”
I looked at him.
“Blue door.”
His voice was quiet.
“Paint peeling around the handle.”
My heart started beating faster.
“You couldn’t reach the top shelf inside.”
I stared at him.
“So you climbed onto the broken fishing boat.”
Another flash.
Wood beneath my feet.
A rusted boat tipped against the wall.
Dust.
Cobwebs.
A small boy laughing.
“You fell.”
I touched my knee.
“That’s where I got the scar.”
Lucien looked at my knee.
“Yes.”
I stared at him.
There was a tiny pale scar just below my right knee.
I’d had it for as long as I could remember.
I’d never known exactly where it came from.
My mother had always said I was too young to remember.
I looked back at Lucien.
“You remember.”
“Everything.”
His voice was barely audible.
“The boat was already broken.”
He smiled faintly.
“You blamed me for it.”
“I did?”
“You said I had distracted you.”
I stared.
“I don’t remember that.”
“I do.”
He looked toward the window.
“You carried a book everywhere.”
“What book?”
“An old book about birds.”
I froze.
I knew that book.
Or at least, I remembered having it.
A battered children’s book with a faded blue cover.
My mother had thrown it away years ago because the pages were falling apart.
“You stole it from the library,” Lucien said.
“I didn’t steal it.”
“You did.”
“I borrowed it.”
“You never returned it.”
I laughed despite myself.
“You remember that?”
“I remember everything.”
He looked at me.
“You used to sit under the apple tree and read.”
I could see it.
Me.
Small.
Quiet.
Always holding the same book.
A boy sitting beside me.
Not speaking much.
Just listening.
My chest tightened.
“Why don’t I remember you?”
Lucien looked down.
“I don’t know.”
“You said you looked for me.”
“I did.”
“For how long?”
“Years.”
I couldn’t answer.
He continued.
“I went back every summer.”
My eyes burned.
“To the lake?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because you said you would come back.”
I looked away.
Something inside me hurt.
“I don’t remember saying that.”
“I know.”
He smiled.
It wasn’t a happy smile.
It was the saddest expression I’d ever seen on his face.
Then he said the words.
The ones he’d apparently carried with him for years.
“You told me not to forget you.”
I stared at him.
I didn’t remember saying it.
I wanted to.
I wanted desperately to.
But there was nothing.
No clear memory.
No sound.
No face.
Just the lake.
The chocolate.
The sunlight.
I whispered:
“I don’t remember.”
“I know.”
He looked at me.
“I didn’t.”
My throat tightened.
“You didn’t?”
He shook his head.
“I didn’t forget you.”
I couldn’t speak.
Lucien looked down at his hands.
“I kept the medal.”
My eyes dropped to his wrist.
The silver Saint Christopher medal was there.
Hidden beneath his sleeve.
“I wore it because I thought if I had something you touched, I’d remember you even if I couldn’t find you.”
“You were a child.”
“I know.”
“You couldn’t have known...”
“I knew.”
His voice cracked slightly.
It was the first time I’d ever heard his voice do that.
“I knew I loved you.”
I stared at him.
The academy continued around us.
Somewhere downstairs, a door slammed.
Students laughed in the courtyard.
A bell rang.
Life went on.
But I couldn’t move.
“You loved me?”
“When we were ten.”
I swallowed.
“And now?”
Lucien didn’t answer.
He didn’t need to.
I understood.
At least enough to be frightened.
I stood.
“I need air.”
He didn’t stop me.
I walked to the window.
Outside, the lake stretched toward the mountains.
The same lake.
The same mountains.
Somewhere beyond them was the place where two children had once sat beneath an apple tree and shared a chocolate bar.
One of them remembered.
One didn’t.
I pressed my forehead against the cold glass.
“Why did I leave?”
Lucien’s voice came quietly behind me.
“I don’t know.”
“Why didn’t I come back?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did you hate me?”
He went silent.
I turned.
“Lucien?”
“No.”
His answer was immediate.
“I never hated you.”
“Even when I didn’t come back?”
“No.”
“Even when you thought I’d forgotten?”
He looked at me.
“I knew you hadn’t chosen to forget.”
I frowned.
“How could you know that?”
“Because you promised.”
I looked away.
He stepped closer.
“Some promises are bigger than children.”
My heart ached.
I didn’t know what to do with any of this.
The boy I’d been trying to remember was Lucien.
The boy he’d been waiting for was me.
And somehow, the strangest part wasn’t that we had known each other.
It was that after all these years, he had remembered me.
Every detail.
Every little thing I’d forgotten.
The apple tree.
The broken boat.
The book.
The chocolate.
The scar.
The promise.
I had spent my entire childhood thinking those things were meaningless fragments.
Lucien had spent his carrying them.
He looked at me.
“I don’t expect you to remember everything.”
I said nothing.
“I just wanted you to know.”
I nodded slowly.
“I know.”
He smiled.
Sad.
Small.
Familiar.
And for one impossible second, I could almost see the boy from the lake inside him.
The boy with scraped knees.
The boy who had waited.
The boy I had promised to return to.
I still couldn’t remember his face.
But now I knew his name.
Lucien.
And somehow, that felt like the beginning of remembering.
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