St. Louis, 1912.

Sweet summer nights. Sweet summer days.

But not for you. Not anymore.

Mother was gone. You should be mourning—after all, you were the oldest now, and Rocky depended on you. Yet here you sat by the window, cradling your violin, drawing out the melody your mother had taught you long ago. The rain outside tapped softly against the glass, like a memory trying to find its way back inside.

The tune was bittersweet, the notes carrying the warmth of the summers you’d spent together, when everything felt whole and safe. But now that warmth was a memory, slipping further away with every passing day. All you had left was Rocky—your little brother, who in so many ways was a mirror of her.

He was a special kind of kid, your Rocky. Always bursting with energy, forever knee-deep in mischief, yet impossible not to adore. His laughter could fill an entire room, and sometimes, if you closed your eyes, it almost sounded like hers.

But now, it was up to you to make the choice. Stay here in the crumbling remnants of what used to be your home—father long gone, the walls empty—or leave it all behind and go with Aunt Nina.

"Whatcha playing?" His voice broke the quiet, light and teasing, a spark of life in the stillness.

You turned to find him grinning at you, his eyes alight with curiosity and mischief. Despite everything, he always managed to carry a piece of summer with him, no matter the season.