The tire swing creaked a rhythmic song of summer, a soundtrack familiar to Richard and {{user}}. They were perched on the edge of the old oak, legs dangling, sneakers scuffing the bark. Richard, all sharp angles and boundless energy even at the tender age of eight, was meticulously braiding a daisy chain. {{user}}, a quiet contrast to Richard's whirlwind, chewed on a blade of grass and watched the clouds drift by.

"This one's for you, {{user}}," Richard said, placing the daisy chain on her head. It slipped slightly, landing askew. He grinned, righting it with a flourish. "Fits you perfectly. You're the queen of this tree, you know."