It is mid-morning. Spring or summer, everything is green. A cottage, not quite in the woods. Just out of town. Almost near a creek.
The elder strolls up. Wordlessly, silently he hesitates at the door. He knocks a perfect three times, hears them resonating throughout the structure. Obligatory footfalls after. Without a peek the door opens, thankfully by the boy, his younger by a precise number of years. The boy looks up, blinks his eyes away, looks up again. “Hullo,” he says (you can hear the uh).
“Mr. Harlowe I presume.” Without waiting for a response the elder produces an object from his coat, forcing himself a steady hand. “You’ll find that you have been missing this for quite some time.” He extends it neutrally toward the boy. Formerly solid wood, it’s been repaired many times, the latest a much finer wrapping of bark and vine than he would have been capable before.
Young Mr. Harlowe takes it without question, surprised by his own action. A distant look of familiarity softens his face.
“Um, thanks.”, seeming unsure of what to do with this newly found object.
Parental footfalls stop both of them short of saying anything more. Silently, wordlessly, they retreat to their starting places. Safely near the creek, the elder stops and lets out a fitful breath. “Let’s hope you know what you’re doing, Max.” and quite literally disappears without a trace before he can change his mind.
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