Time has a cruel way of testing innocence.
The oak tree still stood tall behind Ernest's home, its branches reaching toward the heavens as if trying to hold onto the past. The carvings they'd made together — two small initials, E + F, inside a crooked heart — had faded, but the memory lingered. That tree had once been their world. Now, it felt like a monument to something the world had stolen.
Years had passed since that rainy afternoon. Ernest had grown taller, quieter still, his eyes sharper — always searching for something just beyond reach. Felicia had grown too, her laughter still the same, though it now echoed from a world far above his own. Her family had moved to the city, to a mansion of glass and gold, far from the humble streets where Ernest still walked with muddy shoes and dreams stitched together from sketches and dust.
But she never forgot him. Letters came — neat handwriting, always smelling faintly of jasmine.
"Dear Ernest," one had read, "Father says we're moving again. I don't want to. You promised you'd build something great — promise me you'll still do it."
He had written back, every line careful, every word trembling. "I will. For you."
They wrote for years, until the letters stopped coming.
He waited by the oak tree every week, the way they used to, notebook in hand, eyes scanning the horizon. The seasons changed, the wind grew colder, but she never returned. And though he told himself she was just busy, a quiet ache began to grow — one that ink and dreams could no longer soothe.
One evening, when the sun was dying in shades of scarlet and gold, he wandered through the town, passing by the posters that covered the square. There she was — Felicia. Her face on a banner. "Felicia Williams: Youngest Art Prodigy of the Year."
The world had seen her light, and he was proud. But pride can hurt when it's soaked in longing.
He stood there, the wind tearing through him, until his father's voice broke through the haze.
"Dreams won't feed you, Ernest," he said harshly. "The world doesn't care about promises."
Maybe his father was right. But as Ernest lay awake that night, he couldn't shake the sound of her laughter, or the memory of her voice saying, "We'll do it together."
Together.
The word was now a wound.
And yet, fate wasn't done with him.
Weeks later, a letter arrived. It wasn't from Felicia — it was from her father.
"Stay away from my daughter. She has a future that does not include you."
No signature. Just the sting of truth and cruelty pressed into paper.
Ernest didn't cry. He just folded the letter and tucked it inside his sketchbook, between the pages filled with drawings of the oak tree — the place where everything began and everything ended.
That night, the sky turned crimson. The blood moon rose again, bathing his small room in eerie light. He couldn't explain why, but he felt it — a pulse, deep and ancient, thundering beneath his skin. The air trembled. The shadows along his wall seemed to whisper.
He stood by the window, watching the red moon burn above the horizon. His reflection looked back — eyes glowing faintly, just for a moment.
Something inside him stirred. A promise. A curse.
He whispered to the silence, "I'll find her again. No matter what I become."
The wind howled, carrying his vow into the night, and somewhere far away, beneath that same red light, Felicia sat by her window, feeling her heart tighten for reasons she couldn't name.
Two souls, bound by a promise and divided by destiny.
Neither of them knew it yet, but when the moon turned red again — the world would never be the same.