You never forget the shape of a promise made in childhood.
It lives somewhere strange, in the corners of your memory, in the places where dust turns golden near sunset, in the echo of sandals slapping against a dirt road, in the laughter that used to feel endless because you were too young to know that almost everything ends. When you are eight years old, promises feel like laws written into the bones of the world. When your best friend grabs your shoulders with trembling hands and says, I’ll come back, brother. I promise, you believe him with the entire force of your small, loyal heart.
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