Before The Goodbye - 1. Chapter 1

Coming back to this town feels like stepping into a photograph left too long in the sun, colors faded, edges worn, but the shapes still familiar. The streets are just as quiet, houses lined with porches where neighbors still wave. Doors look like they could still be left unlocked.

Walking past the park brings back the heat of one long-ago summer. The swings creak in the breeze, the slide gleams faintly under the sun, and for a moment it’s easy to see a younger version of myself waiting there, restless and alone. That was the summer when everything began, when a boy named Eric came running across the grass his ball had hit me, and I fell flat on my back but nothing was ever the same again.

It takes only a walk past the park to remember how it all began.

Moving to a small town was supposed to be perfect, quiet streets, neighbors who waved, doors left unlocked. For a kid, though, summer stretched endless, with no classmates to meet and playgrounds that stood empty under the hot sun.

Each morning, my parents left for work and handed the day over to the Ramsbottom's. Kind people, but their house smelled faintly of dust and cabbage, their television offered nothing but static, and their voices filled the silence more than laughter ever could.

The park became a routine. Swings moved only so high without someone pushing from behind. Monkey bars stung palms, but crossing alone felt like going in circles. Even the slide, bright and tall, lost its thrill after the tenth climb.

At noon, Mr. Ramsbottom appeared on the path with his cane, steady as clockwork. “How do you like living here, Ethan?” he asked one day as we walked home.

“It’s nice. But no kids to play with. Dad says a bike is coming. Mom worries, though. But that’s why we moved here.”

He nodded, eyes soft with something unspoken. “Maybe that can be fixed.” The words lingered, puzzling, all the way back to the house.

Lunch waited on the table, thick slices of bread, stew rich with herbs. Hunger made it vanish quickly, and Mrs. Ramsbottom smiled as the spoon scraped the bowl. Later, she pressed a basket into waiting hands. “Go on, love. Pick a few apples from the tree.”

The apples were small, green, sharp enough to make the jaw ache. Two were pulled down from the lowest branch, each clutched like treasure. The hammock stretched between two oaks swayed gently, canvas warm from the sun. One apple disappeared in a handful of bites, the other forgotten, half-eaten, as heavy eyelids gave way to sleep.

Mrs. Ramsbottom’s voice pulled the afternoon closed. “Ethan, wake up, dear. Your parents are home.” Her hand rested lightly on my shoulder, and the backyard glowed golden under the setting sun.

Outside, Mom and Mrs. Ramsbottom spoke for a while, then we left.

“How was your day, dear?” asked my Mom.

“It was good. Mrs. Ramsbottom made soup and sandwiches. She let me pick a couple of apples from her tree. She said to take one home.” The words came out slow, heavy with sleep from the afternoon nap.

We walked home quietly, only the breeze whispering through the trees and the birds calling above.

At home, Dad was already helping with dinner.

“Hey buddy! Hope you had a good day today. Tomorrow, we will get you registered for school for the fall. Then you’ll make plenty of new friends!” he said.

Maybe he was right. Summer vacation kept everyone away.

“Yeah, thanks, Dad. Having friends will be fun.”

“Why don’t you head upstairs and clean up? Dinner will be ready in about thirty minutes. Maybe read for a while?” he suggested.

Books always waited. Most had been read so many times the covers had faded, spines bent, and corners curled. A new one meant a new adventure, though new ones didn’t come often. The library was supposed to help with that, but the visit never happened. Maybe this weekend.

Making my way upstairs, telling my Dad “OK. Call me when dinner’s ready.”

The stairs creaked underfoot, the old house whispering secrets with each step. In my bedroom, a familiar book rested on the nightstand. The cover dulled with age, pages soft from too many turns, but it still held worlds worth visiting. Settling onto the bed, the story opened once more.

Each page pulled the mind away, heroes facing danger, villains nearly escaping, battles fought again and again. Even when the ending was already known, imagining what else could happen never grew old. Building new stories was the best part. Perhaps, someday, words on the page would belong not to someone else, but to me, the boy holding the book.

After dinner, the kitchen filled with the sound of dishes clattering while the sweet scent of apple pie lingered in the air. Sleep came quickly that night, heavy and warm, dreams carrying the taste of sour apples and melting ice cream.

Morning light spilled across the bedroom, pale gold through the curtains. Another day began, the same as before, parents leaving for work, the walk to the Ramsbottom's’ house, the familiar greeting from Mrs. Ramsbottom. Soon enough, the park waited again, swings squeaking in the breeze, monkey bars baking in the sun.

The park was as empty as always, the swings shifting slightly in the breeze, their chains squeaking. Heat pressed down, the monkey bars glinting in the sun. Time seemed to stretch thin, every moment the same.

Then a shout cut through the air. At first, the words blurred in the distance, too faint to catch. A ball shot across the grass, faster than expected, and before there was time to move, thud. It struck me square in the chest, knocking the breath out and sending the world tilting for a second.

Footsteps pounded closer. “Hey! Are you okay?” A boy, about the same age, leaned over, concern on his face.

A stunned nod. The ball lay at my side, harmless now.

The boy reached out a hand. “Sorry about that. Didn’t think it’d hit you. My name's Eric. Wanna play?”

The hand stayed there, steady and waiting as he pulled me up from the ground. Dust clung to my shorts, but his grin made it easy to forget the ball’s sting.

“My name’s Ethan.”

“Cool. Where do you live?”

“Across the park. Just moved here.”

“Yeah? Same here. Pretty boring, isn’t it? Everyone’s on summer break.”

The words tumbled easily, and soon we were swapping stories, where we moved from, how long we’d been stuck at home, what games we liked, which cartoons were worth watching. Eric’s laugh came quick and bright, the kind that made everything brighter.

“Come on,” he said, snatching the ball and booting it high into the air. “Let’s play.”

The ball soared, and both of us tore after it, sneakers pounding against the grass. Shouts and laughter echoed through the park, filling space that had been silent all summer.

Hours slipped past before Mr. Ramsbottom appeared at the edge of the field, just as he always did. “Ethan, ready to go for lunch?”

“Aaaw, does he have to?” Eric asked, still clutching the ball. “We are having fun!”

“Lunch first, play after,” Mr. Ramsbottom said with a smile.

“Okay…” Eric dragged the word out, reluctant but grinning.

“What’s your name?” Mr. Ramsbottom asked.

“Eric. Our family just moved here too, like Ethan’s.” Replied Eric.

“Well, Eric, do you think your mom or dad would mind if you joined us for lunch?” Asked Mr. Ramsbottom.

“Probably not. Do you have a phone? Gotta call my mom.” Asked Eric

“Of course, back at the house. Come on, you two. Lunch is waiting.” Replied Mr. Ramsbottom.

We walked back to Mr. Ramsbottom’s house, with my new friend Eric.

At the Ramsbottom house, Mr. Ramsbottom guided Eric to the phone and pressed a slip of paper with their number into his hand. Eric dialed quickly, speaking in short bursts before passing the receiver to Mrs. Ramsbottom. Her voice softened as she chatted with his mother, nodding along, the conversation brief but pleasant. When she hung up, a smile gave away the answer.

Soon Eric stood at the sink, washing his hands while Mrs. Ramsbottom laid out lunch. Plates appeared on the table, sandwiches stacked neatly, glasses of orange juice already filled, a bowl of corn chips waiting between us.

Eric slid into his chair, eyes bright, patient but eager. Mrs. Ramsbottom added a tray of sliced vegetables and a plate of fruit for later. She moved with the practiced ease of someone who loved caring for others, humming under her breath as she worked.

The room felt warmer, fuller somehow. With Eric at the table and the Ramsbottom's bustling around, the day no longer belonged to quiet routines but to something new.

After lunch, Mrs. Ramsbottom sent us off with a smile, reminding us to stay in the park. Mr. Ramsbottom settled into his afternoon nap, promising to fetch us before Mom arrived.

Eric led the way, talking without pause. His favorite thing was comics, hundreds stacked at home, read again and again. He invited me over sometime, hoping permission wouldn’t be a problem.

At the park, the ball kept us busy for a while, rolling and bouncing between us until our legs grew tired. Soon we were darting through the playground, chasing each other around monkey bars and sliding down in quick bursts of laughter. Eventually, the swings drew us in. First, Eric pushed, the chains groaning with each arc. Later, he hopped onto the seat, demanding the same in return, grinning with every shove that sent him skyward.

The afternoon felt endless, sun stretching shadows long across the grass. Then Mr. Ramsbottom appeared, cane tapping softly. Time to go.

“Do you hafta go?” Eric asked, clutching the ball.

“Yeah… but tomorrow, we’ll play again.”

“For sure! This was fun. Thanks, Mr. Ramsbottom. Thanks, Ethan.”

Mr. Ramsbottom studied him kindly. “All right then, Eric. You safe to get home on your own?”

“Yup. My house is just past the school. Mom says it’s fine. Bye! See you tomorrow!” With that, he sprinted off, laughter trailing behind.

Mr. Ramsbottom’s hand rested briefly on my shoulder. “Good friend, that one. Glad you’ve got someone now. Mrs. Ramsbottom wanted me to play tag with you both, but these knees have other plans.”

We headed back together, reaching his porch just as Mom came up the walk. Her smile widened at the sight of us.

“Mr. Ramsbottom, thank you for looking after Ethan. Hopefully he hasn’t been too much trouble?”

“Not at all,” he said warmly. “He made a new friend today. Eric, just moved here as well. Mrs. Ramsbottom has their number.”

He disappeared inside for a moment, returning with a slip of paper. “Here you are. Seems like good people.”

Mom tucked it into her purse, relief softening her face. Together, we walked home, both lighter than the day before.

Back at home, Dad was in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, helping Mom with dinner.

“Hey, buddy! How was your day? Anything exciting happen?” he asked.

“Made a friend. His name’s Eric. He’s got comics and wants me to come over and read.”

Mom smiled from the counter. “Mr. Ramsbottom gave me their number. We’ll call later and set something up.”

“That sounds good,” Dad added. “For now, get washed up. Dinner’s almost ready.”

Feet dragged on the way upstairs, ears straining to catch bits of conversation below. Curiosity burned to know what Eric’s parents were like, but the bathroom mirror waited instead. A quick wash, a splash of water across the face, then back down the stairs.

Dinner was already set when the chair scraped into place. The smell of garlic and roasted chicken filled the air.

“Mom called Eric’s mom,” Dad began once plates were passed around. “They sound like good people. This weekend we’ll go over and meet them. Until then, you two can play in the park together, all right?”

“All right…” The answer came softer than intended, disappointment tugging at the words. Tonight had felt possible.

Dinner stretched into evening, plates cleared and the clatter of dishes filling the kitchen. Sleep came quickly afterward, the day’s laughter replaying in dreams.

Morning light returned just as it always did, painting the bedroom walls pale gold. Another breakfast, another walk to the Ramsbottoms, another sprint to the park. Eric was already waiting, ball at his feet and a grin on his face.

Hours blurred in the heat, kicking the ball until legs ached, climbing monkey bars until palms stung, trading turns on the swings until dizzy laughter sent both tumbling into the grass. Stories filled the quiet moments: Eric’s endless comics, dreams of adventures, the best superheroes and the worst villains. Every day ended the same, Mr. Ramsbottom calling out, Mom waiting at the door, the promise of tomorrow hanging in the air.

By Saturday, the routine had become a rhythm. That afternoon, Mom and Dad walked with me across the park to Eric’s house. His parents greeted us warmly at the door, smiles wide, hands firm in greeting. The kitchen table was set with juice and cookies, and soon the room hummed with voices, grown-ups talking easily, me and Eric already flipping through a stack of comics spread across the floor.

It felt simple, natural, like the start of something that might last forever.

The summer rolled forward, each day brighter than the last. By the end of the second week, the park was no longer just a place to pass the time, it had become a world of running games, secret jokes, and stories traded like treasures. Everyday was an adventure.

One afternoon, Eric’s mom invited me to stay over. Permission came easily, Mom smiling as she packed a small bag. “Be polite, help where you can, and call if you need anything,” she reminded me. Dad added, “Have fun. We’ll see you tomorrow.”

Mom and dad let me walk to Eric’s house. It wasn’t very far.

Getting to Eric’s house, he was already outside waiting on the porch with a comic in his hand. As soon as he saw me, he smiled and waved. Eric’s mom and dad said hi to me, and we quickly went upstairs. Adventures were waiting for us in those pages strewn across his bedroom floor.

Eric’s room smelled faintly of paper and ink, stacks of comics lined against the wall like towers. We spent hours stretched across the floor, reading by the light of a lamp, voices carrying excitement as each page turned. Later, his mom brought popcorn, and the night ended with us whispering stories long after the lights went out.

The next morning, sunlight streamed through the curtains, and Eric’s dad wheeled two bicycles from the garage. His was shiny and red; the other, too small. Disappointment crept in until Mr. Ramsbottom surprised us later that afternoon.

Eric shot off down the driveway, the red bike flashing in the sunlight. “Come on!” he shouted over his shoulder. The smaller bike wobbled beneath me, pedals stiff, knees knocking the handlebars. A few shaky circles later, it was clear this one wasn’t going to work.

Eric slowed, looping back. “Doesn’t fit, huh? Maybe we can share for now.” The offer was kind, but sharing meant waiting, watching. The thought sat heavy as we pushed the bikes toward the park.

At the far end, Mr. and Mrs. Ramsbottom sat together on a bench, watching the afternoon drift by. Mr. Ramsbottom noticed us first, his sharp eyes catching the frustration written across my face. He raised a hand in greeting, a smile already forming.

As we reached the bench, Mr. and Mrs. Ramsbottom were sitting in the afternoon sun.

“Beautiful bike you go there Eric, just like the one my dad got for me a long time ago. Yours doesn’t look too good, Ethan. Now then, why don’t the both of you follow me and Mrs. Ramsbottom home, there is something waiting for you and today seems as good as any.”

Leading us across the park to his shed, Mr. Ramsbottom brought out an old bicycle, dust clinging to its frame. With a rag, oil, and steady patience, he worked through the afternoon while we hovered nearby. Rust faded, wheels straightened, the chain tightened until everything clicked into place.

When he finished, the bike stood ready—dark blue, with a long banana seat and high handlebars that curved like wings. To anyone else, it was just a bicycle. To us, it looked like the perfect spaceship.

“Not brand new,” he admitted, “but it’ll get you where you want to go.”

With quick thanks to Mr. Ramsbottom, we blasted off on our first mission, pursuing the elusive space monster that had leapt straight out of Eric’s comics.

The first ride felt like flying. Eric pedaled ahead, hair whipping in the breeze, calling out to follow. Streets blurred into trails, laughter echoing between houses. For the first time, the whole town opened up, not just the park, not just the Ramsbottom's’ yard, but every corner reachable by two wheels.

That night, tired and sunburned, the thought lingered: this summer was shaping into something unforgettable.

We tore through alleys and side streets, down hidden trails and into fields that stretched wide beneath the sun. Outcroppings of trees became alien worlds, shadows turning into secret bases. Every corner promised an adventure.

In our heads, the bicycles weren’t bicycles at all but spaceships straight from the comics. Engines roared in the wind, tires spun like thrusters. Sometimes Eric played the hero, chasing me across imagined galaxies; other times he was the villain, laughing as he sped away toward freedom.

The summer faded into September, and the park gave way to classrooms. Walking through the doors that first day was less frightening with Eric at one side. Together we navigated rows of desks, shared whispered jokes during lessons, and raced out the door when the final bell rang.

Grade school years blurred into routines, science projects done as partners, soccer games played on the same team, birthdays celebrated with comic books wrapped in bright paper. Teachers paired our names so often they seemed like one.

By middle school, days grew busier. Eric joined the basketball team, while afternoons filled with bike rides and long talks under the oak trees near the Ramsbottom's’ yard. Summers meant library trips, camping in backyards, and sleepovers where the glow of flashlights lit whispered secrets.

High school arrived with sharper edges. New faces filled the hallways, interests began to shift. Eric spent more time at practice, surrounded by teammates. Music and reading filled the quieter hours on my end. We still shared lunches, still laughed at old jokes, but the rhythm was different, less certain, stretched thin by schedules and new friendships.

Then came graduation. Caps flew into the air, tassels swinging, cheers echoing across the field. Eric was already talking about college in another city, plans mapped out in bright, bold strokes. Promises were made, calls, visits, letters. The words sounded real in the moment.

But days turned into weeks, then months, and silence grew between us. Numbers changed, addresses shifted. Life moved forward.

Sometimes, walking past the park, the old swings still creak in the breeze. The memory of a ball hitting hard against the chest returns, followed by Eric’s hand reaching out, steady and sure.

The Ramsbottom's are gone now. Their house stands empty, shutters drawn, the garden wild. They passed away a long time ago, but that story doesn’t belong here, it isn’t mine to tell.

What remains are the summers they gave, the care they showed, and the simple kindness of two people who made a new town feel less lonely.

And what remains most of all is the memory of a friend named Eric, and the question that still lingers: where did life take him?