Sophia froze. Looked at it for a long time without breathing.
“That’s me?”
“That’s the light through you,” he said, surprised by his own words.
She closed her eyes—the way people do when they don’t know how to say thank you.
They went walking closer to noon. Took oranges, a bottle of water, and his old collie, Morrison. The dog was wise, fluffy, and limped slightly—but his eyes were like a child’s.
They followed the path along the creek, where their friendship had been born the day before. Today it felt different—as if the place had become part of them, remembered their steps.
“Do you think trees have names?” Sophia asked.
“Only old ones. Young ones haven’t earned them yet,” Elias said thoughtfully.
“Then this one’s Elvie. It’s watching us and knows we’re not just kids.”
He looked at her: hair stuck to her cheek, ink-stained fingers, a strip of sunlight on her nose.
Not just kids, he thought. And felt a thought being born—still without words, but already true.
They returned near evening—tired but light.
As they said goodbye, Sophia touched his hand—quickly, as if by accident, but he remembered it down to his fingertips.
She said:
“Tomorrow I’ll show you my secret. But promise me you won’t laugh.”
“And you promise you won’t disappear,” he whispered. But even at eight, he knew—what truly matters always fears disappearing just a little.
Morning was clear, like water in a glass. Light didn’t just fall—it spread, caressed, promised.
Elias came early and crouched by their tree—Elvie, as Sophia named it. In his hands—two thin stems woven into rings. One slightly larger, the other smaller. He had learned this in spring, but never thought he’d give them to anyone.
Sophia came out with a sheet of paper covered in colored pencil drawings… of guests. A penguin in a hat, a dog with a bow, a cat with a cake, a sun with eyelashes, and ice cream eating itself.
“They all came,” she said seriously, sitting beside him.
“Then we better begin,” Elias nodded.
They played wedding. Not pretend—but real—as only children can when they believe every detail is reality.
“You have to give a speech,” she whispered.
“Okay.”
He stood, held up a twig like a microphone, and said:
“I, Elias, promise… to always share the last piece of chocolate. Even if it has nuts. And also—not to laugh if you spill juice on your socks. And if we ever get lost—I’ll find us. Always.”