As children, they carved their initials into the old oak and swore. “No matter what, we’ll always be there for each other.” Life scattered them—different cities, different lives—but the memory of that pact lingered.

Years later, the oak stood weathered, and so did they. A storm had trapped one of them on the cliffside by the river, water rising fast. Panic surged, but the other didn’t hesitate. With a rope and steady hands, they fought against the current.

When the danger passed, drenched and exhausted, they sat beneath the oak, breathing in the relief of survival.

Oswaldo smiled faintly, fingers tracing the carved initials. “We kept it.” He said.