Park Stroll & Guitar Lessons

A blues record played in the kitchen, its dusty rhythm weaving through golden sunlight spilling across the tile. The window was cracked open just enough to let the crisp autumn air in — cool, earthy, with the distant scent of burning leaves. It was one of those mornings where the house felt like it was taking a deep breath.

Ethan leaned back against the counter, watching as his dad flipped through a newspaper with a coffee in hand. The two of them had exchanged barely a dozen words all morning — not out of coldness, but comfort. The quiet between them was familiar, companionable.

Across the table, Lena, his sixteen-year-old sister, scrolled on her phone in a hoodie that had clearly been stolen from his closet. Her socked feet were propped on the chair next to her, one ankle balanced on the other. She looked up from the screen.

“You’re staring,” she said.

“I’m thinking,” Ethan replied.

She raised an eyebrow. “About what?”

“Teaching you guitar. If you’re still into it.”

Lena blinked. “Wait, really?”

“You’ve been asking. Might as well start.”

Their dad glanced up from the paper, smiling faintly. “Just don’t teach her all that sad-boy indie stuff right away. Ease her in.”

“I make no promises,” Ethan said, smirking.

The blues record rolled on — something smoky, full of longing — and the morning eased forward like syrup.

They had a light breakfast — toast and eggs — then pulled on jackets and left the house for a walk to the Little Lantern. The restaurant wasn’t far, but they decided to take the long way through Riverside Park. The sun was out in full now, casting a soft golden sheen across the pavement. The leaves, already turned to fire, danced in the breeze and scattered along the walkways. Reds, ambers, oranges — the whole park looked like it had been painted in warm brushstrokes.

The trail through Riverside curved beside the water, where the river shimmered and sparkled in the light like a ribbon of broken glass. Ducks skimmed the surface, leaving soft ripples in their wake. Every so often, a breeze rustled the trees, sending a fresh flurry of leaves spinning downward.

Lena paused to take a photo of the trees reflected in the current.

They passed a man sitting on a bench with a sketchpad on his knees, nodding gently to himself as he drew. A little girl rode by on a scooter in a fuzzy pink jacket, her dad jogging behind her with a coffee and a goofy grin.

Ethan and Lena walked slowly, crunching over fallen leaves. They weren’t in any hurry, and the silence between them wasn’t uncomfortable — just spacious. Ethan found himself looking at his sister differently lately. She was still sarcastic, still impossible to share a bathroom with, but there was something sharper in her now. She was growing up, and it was strange how fast that felt.

At the Little Lantern, they slid into their usual booth near the window. The restaurant was quiet, its familiar warmth greeting them like a hug. Paper lanterns swayed in the soft gusts from the ceiling vents, casting faint shadows over the painted walls. The smell of ginger, garlic, and something faintly sweet wrapped around them.

Lena stirred her tea with a spoon, watching the street outside.

“You think you’ll ever write a full song?” she asked. “Your last jam session was really good.”

Ethan shrugged. “Maybe. We’ve talked about it. Blake’s good with lyrics. He’ll probably help if we go for it.”

She gave him a surprised look. “Blake? I didn’t think he was, like, poetic.”

“He’s not,” Ethan said, smiling. “But he pays attention. He sees things people miss. That’s half of writing.”

Lena shrugged, chewing thoughtfully on a dumpling. “Makes sense, I guess. He’s weird, but the good kind of weird.”

Ethan chuckled. “He’ll be honored.”

They lingered long after their plates were cleared. Outside, the sun had started to sink slightly lower, the light mellowing into something softer, more golden. Their booth caught the glow just right, making the table look like it belonged in a memory. For a while, they just sat there — watching people pass, sipping the last of their tea.

Back home in Mariner’s Hollow, their dad was still in the garage, organizing tools with a half-finished beer on the bench beside him. The garage door was propped open, letting the breeze drift in and send paper towels fluttering.

Ethan grabbed his acoustic guitar from his room and stepped out onto the porch. He tuned it carefully, fingers moving with practiced ease. Then he looked up and motioned to Lena.

“Alright,” he said. “You’re gonna hate the first ten minutes, but that’s normal.”

She joined him, cross-legged on the wooden steps, her expression a mix of excitement and nerves.

He handed her the guitar. “Okay, fingers here — hold the neck loose. Don’t grip it like it owes you money.”

She snorted and tried to mimic his positioning, clumsy but focused. Her fingers stumbled across the strings, producing something between a chord and a small animal’s cry.

“Wow,” she said. “That was horrible.”

“You should’ve heard me my first time,” Ethan said. “Actually, no. You shouldn’t have.”

They spent the next half hour moving slowly through the basics — how to hold the guitar, how to press just enough to get a clean sound, how not to buzz the strings. Ethan’s voice stayed low and steady, his instructions patient. He guided her fingers gently when she got stuck and let her figure things out when she started to get the hang of it.

“Try pressing down just a little harder. No, not that finger — yeah, there.”

Her tongue stuck out slightly in concentration, and Ethan smiled without calling her on it.

Every now and then, she’d get a chord almost right, and the notes would ring out, clean and true.

“Was that it?” she asked once, surprised.

“Close enough,” Ethan said. “You’ll get it. Your hands’ll start remembering before your brain does.”

Their dad wandered over halfway through, pausing at the edge of the porch. He leaned against a post, arms folded, just watching them — a quiet presence in the background. He didn’t say anything, but his expression said enough.

Eventually, Lena flexed her fingers and leaned back against the railing. “My hand’s cramping. How do you play for hours?”

“You don’t, at first. You build it. Just like anything.”

She looked up at him, squinting in the late sun. “Thanks for showing me.”

“Anytime.”

They sat like that for a little while longer, letting the afternoon settle around them. The golden light turned warmer, deeper, casting long shadows across the lawn. Somewhere in the neighborhood, a dog barked once and then fell quiet again.

Finally, Ethan stood and stretched. “I should go meet Blake and Nick.”

Lena nodded. “Tell them I said hey. Or don’t. I don’t really care.”

“Definitely telling them.”

He left the guitar propped beside the bench, grabbed his hoodie, and slipped out the front gate. The streets of Resin Grove were quiet, almost too perfect — rows of low houses, wind-chimes, someone grilling in a backyard. The calm was steadying.

The walk toward Nick’s place cut back through Riverside, where the light had grown deeper and more amber. Long shadows stretched across the path. The breeze had picked up, scattering leaves across the ground. The water still glimmered, darker now but just as alive.

As he neared the corner, he spotted Blake leaning against a fence post, tossing a small rock between his hands. Nick stood a few feet away, sipping from a giant iced tea and apparently arguing with a squirrel perched on the trash can beside him.

Ethan smiled to himself, the quiet still lingering in his chest. Blake’s game was coming. The adrenaline, the crowd, the pressure. All of it waiting just over the edge of this stillness.

But for now, this was enough.