Sort of an introductory chapter but STILL READ IT. IT'S IMPORTANT.

My friend Mason said if I walked up to the old, crummy bar on 32nd street by the harbor and asked the fragile old man about Brandy, I would get an interesting story. I had a feeling he was just playing me, especially since everybody knew Old Man Hart was at one point a sailor, and he had exceptionally long stories. No one wanted to hear his sailor stories.  

No one. 

But I still went anyways, and to this day I still don't know why. But I'm sharing this story to you, because, well, I thought you would like it. And because...

Brandy deserves to live on, her story needs to be told. 

I have a feeling, as it was to me, to you it will be a long ride. An emotional rollercoaster. But whatever you do, don't give up on love. It's out there, you just have to take risks and chances and one day you'll be sitting in front of a fireplace with little granddchildren running around you, happy that you sent that risky ass text. 

Love is right under your nose. And it's better to go for it and see what happens then to ignore your emotions. Your heart knows where to go more than you ever will. So listen to Brandy's story and live it as I have; and as many more will to come. 

I walked up to Old Man Hart that fateful day, and his eyes were glossy, his gaze distant, like he was not here with me mentally and spiritually. "Mr Hart?" He nodded, his gaze and expression still solemn as he turned his head to look at me. "Who's Brandy?" He smiled and his head tilted up, his yellowing teeth peeking out, and his gaze was once again aimed at seemingly nothing at all. "Brandy? I haven't heard that name in years..." he rasped out. 

"Brandy was a fine girl." He said after a while. "She had the most beautiful long locks of auburn brown hair that was always damp with seawater, the fairest skin in the entire city and the most hazel eyes you've ever seen." He said fondly. "She always had this locket, you see." He pulled a rusty, sort of damp locket from under his shirt. The name River was etched into it elegantly, and I couldn't help but stare at how beautiful it was. It probably looked way better when it was first made. "But, sir, that's your name." He nodded and leaned back in his chair. "Finest silver from the North of Spain." He said, completely dodging my question. "I gave her some silver once, and I guess she knew a guy..." he muttered. "Brandy was the bartender at The Salty Codger." He gestured to the old, run-down bar before him. "And man, did all the sailors go crazy for her..." He started the story, a dreamy air to his voice. 

Well, here it goes. Now that you're entranced in the story there's no turning back. Good luck.