Before the fear, before the box, there were only two brothers and the green stretch of the valley. In that
quiet fold of the world where sheep wandered hills and the wind knew every name, Jack ran barefoot,
always one step behind his elder brother, Thomas. They were not rich. Their home was stone and wood, and
their boots wore thin before they were outgrown. But to Jack, the world was wide and worthy, and as long
as Thomas laughed, nothing else mattered.
Jack was a small boy, delicate in build and dreamy by nature. Thomas, older by five years, was sturdy and
loud—an expert at climbing trees and baiting worms, always with a grin that made the world feel safer. The
villagers often smiled as they passed the pair tumbling through fields, one with a shepherd's crook far too
long for him, the other with sticks he claimed were swords.
Their mother hung linen along the hedgerows, humming lullabies with lyrics half-forgotten. Jack would dart
beneath the waving cloth, pretending to be a ghost or a knight, while their mother feigned fright. Their
father, though a quiet and serious man, would glance over from shearing sheep and, just for a second,
allow a corner of his mouth to twitch upward. Thomas helped with the shearing when he wasn't teaching
Jack how to catch frogs or whistle through grass.
But even then, there were glimpses of strangeness.
On warm afternoons when Thomas was busy or called away, Jack would wander to the edge of the woods.
He liked the trees, how they whispered things only he seemed to hear. Once, just before something funny
happened—a sheep tumbling backward off a slope, startling the flock—Jack thought he saw a girl standing
between two trees. She was pale, barefoot, and smiling, her black hair drifting as though underwater. When
Jack turned to point her out, she was gone. Moments later, Thomas called him to come see the clumsy
sheep. Jack laughed too hard, breathless and wide-eyed.
He would see her again.
Days blended into seasons. Jack's fondest memory was a morning when the sky was cloudless, and Thomas
had built them a little fort from hay bales. They declared themselves kings of the field and spent hours
defending their throne from invading crows and imaginary knights. That evening, as the sun dipped below
the hills and painted the world in gold and violet, Thomas sat beside Jack and said, "I think when we grow
up, we should build a house right on that hill. You and me. That way, we'll always see the sheep coming."
Jack nodded. He believed it. With the sincerity only a child could carry, he looked up and whispered,
"Promise?"
Thomas grinned. "Promise."
But promises, like sunlight, don't always last.
It was an accident. That's what everyone said. No one blamed Jack. Not aloud.