Fall of 1959

The beginning of fall was always marked by a certain quiet at the Dalton house, now more than ever with Charlie back at Welton and Irene coming home from Saint Helena to an empty house devoid of her brother and his friend.

The living room was far too quiet now, evening routines having replaced the more chaotic, less structured habits of summer.

Irene sat cross-legged on the rug near the coffee table, her notebook open and her pen poised, though the page in front of her remained largely blank.

Her father sat in his favourite armchair, a thick book in his hand, the pages turning every so often as he read. Her mother was nearby on the sofa, a ball of soft blue yarn nestled beside her as her crochet hook clicked against the threads. The rhythmic sound filled the room, a comforting backdrop to the softness of weekday evenings.

Irene chewed on the end of her pen, eyes wandering around the living room until they caught on the small back table by the bookshelf. There, a chessboard sat, its pieces frozen mid-game. Charlie and Knox had left it there the last time they'd played, just before packing up their things for another year away at Welton. Each piece still poised where they had been before they were abandoned in favour of whatever else had caught their attention.

Knox.

Gosh, she'd gone back to Saint Helena with his name lingering in her thoughts far more than she wanted to admit. It didn't help that Sister Constance, her English teacher had asked the girls to write about their summer. It would only take a few sentences before she started thinking about him again.

Irene finally pressed pen to paper and wrote: The summer was warm, full of long days by the pool and in our evenings spent playing games—chess most nights—with my brother and his friend.

She paused, staring at the page, chewing on the end of her pen. His friend. The words felt too broad, too impersonal for someone who had captured her mind for almost the entirety of the summer. But what was she supposed to write?

She thought for another long moment before she began writing again.

Knox Overstreet had been over almost every day. He had a smile that made you forget what you were thinking, a laugh that carried easily, and way of looking at you that made you feel like you were the only person in the room.

She hesitated, her pen hovering over the paper. It was too much. It wasn't an assignment anymore—it was something else, something closer to her heart than she was ready to admit. But she didn't stop writing.

He was golden.

The words felt both perfect and terrifying as they spilled onto the page.

Golden in the way the sun adored him, catching in his hair and painting it with light. golden in the way he moved through the world, with a warmth that made everything around him brighter. It wasn't just the way he looked, though that was part of it—it was the way he made you feel, like every moment mattered when he was in it.

Irene's heart thudded in her chest, her cheeks flushing with heat. She glanced up, her parents still engrossed in their respective activities, oblivious to her and her words.

Her pen moved again, almost against her will.

Knox Overstreet was golden, and I didn't know how to stop seeing him that way. Even now, with summer behind us, I can still feel his presence, lingering like the warmth of the sun after it's set.

She froze, her breath catching. What was she doing?

The words on the page felt too raw, too vulnerable, like a piece of her soul laid bare. She couldn't hand this in—not to Sister Constance, not to anyone.

Without thinking, she ripped the page from her notebook, the sound loud in the quiet room. Her mother glanced up briefly, but Irene quickly folded the paper and tucked it under her notebook, offering her mother a faint smile.

"Everything alright, Dolly?" Her mother asked, her voice gentle.

"Just fixing something," Irene replied, her voice steady despite the flush still burning in her cheeks.

Her father looked up from his book then. "Hard assignment?"

"Something like that," she said quickly, forcing a brighter. "I think I've got it now though."

She flipped to a new page, sliding the tips of her fingers over the divots in the page, feeling the imprints of her earlier words—words much too personal to ever share.

She let out a shaky breath before starting over.

••●••

A week later, Irene's assignment did not return, and she felt her heart drop in her chest. She tried her best to ignore Bea's questioning gaze from across the classroom and shrugged nonchalantly, but the truth of the matter was clear to hear when Sister Constance called her name at the end of the lesson.

"Irene, a word before you go."

The final bell echoed and while the girls hurriedly collected their things and shuffled out of the classroom, their chatter filling the air, Irene remained in her seat after packing up her things.

"I'll wait for you out front?" Bea asked when she passed the desk, chancing a look towards the waiting nun and then Irene. Her tone was casual, but her eyes brimmed with curiosity.

Irene nodded, her voice quiet. "Yeah, I'll see you there."

As Bea disappeared through the door, Irene kept her eyes fixed on the front cover of her notebook, her fingers gripping it tightly. The faded leather was warm and familiar beneath her fingertips, but it felt like little comfort now.

Sister Constance waited until the last of the girls had exited before folding her hands neatly on her desk. "I've read your summer essay," she said, her tone neutral but pointed.

Irene nodded, her fingers tightening around her notebook. "I hope it was alright, Sister."

"'Alright' is a word I wouldn't use to describe your writing, Irene," Sister Constance said, raising an eyebrow.

For a brief, heart-stopping moment, Irene thought the nun had somehow read the original piece she'd hidden away, the one about Knox. But Sister Constance continued before Irene could spiral further.

"Your work last year was far beyond 'alright'. It was thoughtful, vivid, and showed a voice that isn't often found in young writers. This essay, however..." she tapped a small stack of paper on her desk. "It lacks heart. It's written competently, but there's a certain emptiness to it. You're holding back."

Irene's cheeks burned. "I just didn't think my summer was all that interesting, Sister."

Sister Constance leaned back slightly, her sharp eyes softening. "You think I haven't noticed that you hold your writing close, like it's something fragile?"

Irene blinked, unsure how to respond.

The nun continued. "Good writing often feels that way—like revealing too much of yourself. But it's in those personal truths, those raw pieces of who we are, that we find what connects us to others. A generic recount of your summer doesn't hold power because it doesn't tell the truth—not your truth."

Irene hesitated, her fingers worrying at the edge of her notebook. "But what if the truth is... too much?"

Sister Constance regarded her carefully, her expression soft but firm. "Then it's worth writing."

Irene stared at her, the weight of those words sinking into her chest.

"I'm going to give you another chance," Sister Constance said, sliding a fresh sheet of paper across the desk. "I want you to write something that matters to you. Not something you think I want to read, but something that you need to write."

Irene's heart pounded as she took the paper, the edges crisp beneath her fingertips.

"Writing is a mirror, Irene," Sister Constance said. "The question is, are you brave enough to look at your reflection?"

••●••

Back in her room that evening, Irene sat at her desk, the blank page staring back at her. Her notebook sat open beside it, the folded page she'd hidden earlier sat somewhere deep in her desk drawer.

She ran her fingers over the blank page, hesitating.

Are you brave enough to look at your reflection?

Her pen hovered over the paper, hesitant, before finally pressing down.

The summer was golden, full of light and laughter and days that stretched endlessly. There were games and stories and moments that felt like they could last forever.

She paused, chewing on her bottom lip, before continuing.

But what I remember most wasn't the games or the stories. It was the feeling of being in the presence of someone who carried the summer with him, like the sun itself followed him wherever he went. He was warmth and light and everything golden, and he made the days feel brighter just by being there.

Her hand stilled, her breath catching. She stared at the words, her chest tightening with the weight of them. They felt like too much.

But they also felt true.

She folded the page neatly, placing it beside her notebook. She wasn't sure if she'd hand it in yet, but for the first time, she felt like she'd written something that mattered—not just to Sister Constance, but to herself.

••●••

The phone rang one Saturday afternoon, breaking the comfortable quiet of the Dalton house.

Irene was curled up on the sofa, the book she had been reading abandoned in favour of her notebook and pen instead.

Her parents sat nearby. Her father looking over work documents while her mother talked to him about her plans for a ladies luncheon.

Her mother reached for the phone. "Dalton residence," she said warmly into the receiver, her voice instantly brightening. "Charlie! I've been wondering when my sweet son would call."

Irene sat up straighter, her pen slipping from her fingers. Charlie called the house every week to talk, but she'd missed his call last week because she had been volunteering at church. She'd been so sad to hear that Charlie had called and she had missed hearing from him, and had since waited impatiently for the next call, though she'd never admit it aloud.

"Of course, your father and I are fine," her mother said into the receiver, her voice carrying its usual warmth. "And your sister is here too—shall I put her on?"

Irene's heart skipped, and she quickly swung her legs off the sofa, sitting upright. Her father looked up briefly from his papers, amused by her sudden attentiveness.

"Here she is," her mother said, holding the phone out to Irene with a smile.

Irene hesitated for only a second before taking it, pressing the receiver to her ear. "Charlie?"

"Hey, Rini," came her brother's familiar voice, tinged with that easygoing humor that could disarm anyone. "Miss me?"

"Not really," she teased, though the relief in her voice was undeniable. "What's going on? How's Welton?"

"Same old Welton," Charlie replied, though his tone was lighter than usual. "Well, mostly. We've had some... changes around here."

"Changes?" Irene asked, leaning forward, her curiosity piqued.

Charlie's voice grew animated. "There's this new English teacher—Mr. Keating. He's nothing like the other stiffs here. He's got us reading real poetry, Rini. Whitman, Thoreau, even Byron. And he's not just having us read it; he's making us feel it."

"Feel it?" Irene repeated, raising an eyebrow.

"Yeah, he's got this whole thing about 'Carpe diem,'" Charlie said, his voice pitching in imitation. "'Seize the day, boys! Make your lives extraordinary!' He's brilliant, Rini. You'd love him."

She smiled despite herself, charmed by her brother's enthusiasm. "You've never been this excited about school before."

"And there's this whole thing with his niece..."

"Niece?" Irene repeated.

"Yeah, Keating's got his niece here at the school."

"I thought girls couldn't go to Welton."

"They can't," Charlie agreed. "But she's a...a special case."

"Special?" Irene looked to her mother, who tilted her head, raising an intrigued eyebrow, and Irene grinned widely. An unspoken understanding passed between them and Irene set out to pry as much information from her brother as possible to report to her mother later, of course.

"In what ways, Charlie?" Irene pressed, twirling the phone cord around her finger.

"Don't start, Rini," Charlie groaned. "I know Mom's waiting on you to tell her something and I'm not giving it to you."

"Charlie," she almost whined.

"Tough."

Irene pouted, eliciting a soft chuckle from her father, until she brightened. "Is it because she doesn't like you back?" Irene asked. "Is that why you're being so evasive?"

"What?!" Charlie sputtered through the line, his voice pitching higher. "Who said anything about that?"

"You did, just now," Irene countered gleefully.

"Stuff it, Rini," Charlie warned, though his voice held no real malice, only the familiar exasperation of an older brother caught in his little sister's web.

"Uh-huh," Irene said, drawing out the syllables.

It was quiet on the other end of a moment before Charlie said, "I'll write to you about here alright, but you've got swear on all things holy that you won't let Mom read it."

"You'll write to me?" Irene's eyes widened. Getting Charlie to write a letter was nearly impossible. He'd been gone at Welton an entire year last year and had all but written two letters.

"Yeah, but promise only you will read it."

"I solemnly swear on all things holy," she said dramatically, glancing at her mother, who raised an eyebrow but continued with what she was doing, pretending not to listen.

"Good," Charlie said after a pause. "Alright, alright. I've got to go. Knox is waiting to use the phone."

At the mention of Knox, Irene's heart skipped, her teasing grin faltering slightly. "Knox is there?"

"Yeah," Charlie said causally. "You want to talk to him?"

"No, I—" Irene started, but it was too late. She heard Charlie handing off the phone, and then Knox's familiar voice came through the line.

"Hey, Rini."

"Hi," she said quickly, her voice catching.

"How's Saint Helena treating you?" He asked, his tone warm and genuinely interested.

"It's good," Irene said, her cheeks warming. "How's Welton?"

"Great, really, truly," Knox replied quickly.

"Good," Irene said and then winced. She'd said that already. "That's good, I mean."

Knox hummed in agreement on the other end.

Irene swallowed, finding her mouth dry. "Well, um...I'll let you go and call your family. Tell Charlie I'm expecting his letter soon."

"Will do," Knox said, and Irene could hear the smile in his voice. "Take care, Rini"

"You too," she murmured, her voice softer now.

The line clicked, and Irene set the phone back on its cradle with deliberate care, as though handling something fragile. She sat there for a moment, her hand still resting on the receiver, her thoughts swirling. Knox's voice lingered in her mind, warm and easy, like the fading glow of that la summer sunset they'd shared together on the porch swing while he played a game of chess with her.

"Your move, Rini," he said, leaning back with a causal grin, his fingers tapping idly against the wooden armrest.

Irene narrowed her eyes at the board, biting the inside of her cheek as she contemplated her options. The game had been dragging on for nearly half an hour now, and though she hated to admit it, Knox had her cornered. Again.

She hadn't beat him a single time this entire summer.

"You're toying with me," she accused.

Knox chuckled softly, the sound low and warm and it sent a flutter of butterflies somewhere low in her belly. "Toying with you? Never."

Her brow furrowed as she finally reached out and moved her bishop. "There. Your turn."

Knox's gaze lingered on her for a moment before dropping to the board. He studied it briefly, smiled to himself, and then moved his queen into position with ease. "Check."

"Check?!" Irene groaned, throwing her head back in exasperation. "How are you always one step ahead?"

"It's strategy," Knox replied, his tone teasing but still kind. "You're thinking about the next move, but I'm thinking about the next three."

"Of course you are," she mumbled, though there was no mistaking the hint of admiration in her voice.

The swing creaked softly as they both settled into a companionable silence. Irene's eyes flicked to the side, catching the way the sunlight danced on Knox's profile—the strong lines of his jaw, the way his hair caught the golden glow of the setting sun. She swallowed hard, her fingers curling tightly around the edge of the swing.

"You're quiet," he said, breaking the silence.

"I'm thinking," she replied quickly, straightening.

"About the game?"

"Of course about the game," she lied, her cheeks flushing.

Knox's lips curved into a small smile, as though he knew better but chose not to call her out. Instead, he leaned forward, his eyes meeting hers. "You're getting better, you know. At chess."

Irene blinked, caught off guard by the softness in his tone. "I am?"

"Yeah," he said, nodding. "You don't just make moves for the sake of it anymore. You think about them. It's... impressive."

For a moment, all Irene could do was stare at him, her heart thudding loudly in her chest. The words felt too personal, too much like something more than casual encouragement, and yet Knox delivered them so effortlessly.

"Thanks," she managed, her voice quieter than she intended.

The sun dipped lower, casting long shadows across the porch as the game came to its inevitable conclusion. Knox, as always, won with a final, decisive move. But as they packed up the pieces, Irene realized she didn't mind the loss so much—not when the evening had felt like its own kind of victory.

"One day, I'll beat you," she said.

Knox smiled, his gaze lingering on her for just a second too long. "I'm looking forward to it, Rini."