Between Breath and Silence

Chapter One: Brairwood Lakehouse

“But Mom!” I whined, rolling onto my back as she walked in and turned the volume down on my speaker.

“Don’t ‘but Mom’ me. I told you, Jennifer, this is a zero-technology weekend with the family. Now, give it up.” Her tone was firm, and she held out a box already brimming with my little sister’s Nintendo, the family laptop, and my parents’ cell phones.

Mom had read about the dangers of too much tech exposure—how it disconnected kids from nature and warped their grasp on reality. So, she declared we’d leave everything behind for the summer and head to our lake house.

I rolled my eyes and switched my phone off. After dumping it into the box, I stood up, feeling a pang of loss.

Mom smiled victoriously as she made her way to the kitchen.

I lingered in my room a moment longer as the others began heading out. When I was sure nobody was watching, I dashed to my bed, lifted the mattress, and retrieved a cell I had borrowed from Mike. No way was I going to make this summer work without being able to text him.

“Jen? Hurry up, honey. We’re already running late, and we need to make it before sundown.”

“Coming!” I tossed the phone into my backpack and raced out the front door, where my sister and her friend were piling into Dad’s old beat-up Corvette. Justine was allowed to bring a friend because her friend was a girl; Dad insisted I wasn’t ready to spend an entire vacation with my boyfriend, even if I promised to not be alone with him the entire time.

I sighed and leaned my head against the cool glass as we pulled away.

Briarwood Lake wasn’t far from town—about a thirty-minute drive, depending on traffic. But without Ellie Goulding playing in my ears, texting Mike, or being able to scroll through Facebook, the journey felt endless.

We’d been visiting the Briarwood lakehouse for as long as I could remember. After a group of local teenagers set fire to it forty years ago, the previous owners lost interest in rebuilding, allowing Grandpa Eric to snatch it up for a steal.

The sun dipped low as we climbed out of the car, casting a golden hue over the landscape. My little sister and her friend Sarah beamed with excitement, their joy infectious. I suppose, to a fifteen-year-old girl who had never seen the lakehouse before, it could seem quite impressive.

The cabin stood proudly at the edge of Briarwood Lake, a sturdy wooden structure that had weathered decades of storms and seasons with grace. Its log walls, a rich chestnut hue, exuded warmth, and the faint, earthy scent of pine filled the air, intertwining with the crispness of nature.

A wide, inviting porch wrapped around the front, filled with weathered rocking chairs that creaked softly in the breeze. The front door, hand-carved and slightly tilted, offered a glimpse into the cabin's rustic charm.

Inside, the open layout seamlessly blended the living and dining areas, with high, exposed beam ceilings that added a sense of spaciousness. Thick wooden beams crisscrossed overhead. A stone fireplace dominated one wall, its mantel adorned with old photographs of summers past and souvenirs collected over the years.

The cozy living area was furnished with a mismatched array of comfortable couches and armchairs, covered in soft blankets that invited friendly gatherings. The last rays of sunlight streamed through large windows, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the air.

The kitchen, though small, was functional and homey, with rustic wooden cabinets and an antique stove that had seen better days. A heavy dining table made from reclaimed wood stood at its center, serving as the heart of the cabin where countless family meals and late-night discussions had taken place.