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    Cover of Just David
    Children's Literature

    Just David

    by

    The Moun­tain Home rests in a place untouched by noise and clut­ter, a serene cor­ner of the world where every breeze car­ries a whis­per and every tree stands like a silent wit­ness. Perched on a slop­ing ledge, the cab­in opens toward a view so expan­sive that it feels like a liv­ing paint­ing. The cliffs rise behind them, shel­ter­ing the lit­tle home from the cold­est winds, while ahead lies a world of green slopes, for­est shad­ows, and a sil­ver-thread­ed brook trac­ing the val­ley floor. For David, this isn’t just home—it is an exten­sion of his soul. The wild­flow­ers, the scat­tered boul­ders, the way sun­light drapes over the tree­tops at dusk—each detail feels known and loved. Time here moves slow­ly. There are no clocks but the sun and stars, no dis­trac­tions except the occa­sion­al cloud cross­ing the sky.

    Inside, the cab­in tells a sto­ry of minds and hearts that lived qui­et­ly but rich­ly. There are no hunt­ing tro­phies or clut­tered fur­ni­ture, but rather the gen­tle pres­ence of cul­ture: vio­lins hang­ing like sacred arti­facts, books piled care­ful­ly, and music scat­tered like foot­prints across the table. The walls seem to lis­ten more than they echo, as though every note David plays stays some­where in the rafters. Their meals are mod­est, but David takes pride in help­ing, even if his culi­nary skills are guid­ed more by instinct than recipe. He watch­es his father, notic­ing the fatigue hid­den behind his eyes. He doesn’t yet under­stand what it means, but he sees the dif­fer­ence. Their con­ver­sa­tions flow with gen­tle teas­ing, care, and the kind of love that needs few words.

    That evening, as always, the vio­lin becomes a voice. David lifts it to his shoul­der, and the for­est lis­tens. His music is not practiced—it’s emo­tion­al. Each note reflects the breeze, the shad­ows, the qui­et ache in his father’s breath. When his father joins in on anoth­er vio­lin, their duet feels like a prayer to the moun­tains. But after­ward, when the vio­lins are silent, the father speaks of change. Not direct­ly, but through hints and pauses—of leav­ing, of David being ready, of the world out­side wait­ing. David tries to under­stand. His world has nev­er extend­ed beyond the ridge, the val­ley, the cab­in. The idea of “after” fright­ens him.

    David’s thoughts swirl with half-formed fears. He has been taught to see beau­ty every­where, even in sor­row, and so he tries. But a weight press­es on him. His father’s voice, though gen­tle, holds a final­i­ty that no child wants to hear. The con­cept of death exists in David’s vocab­u­lary, but not in his heart. He believes his father will rest and return, that good­byes are only for sto­ries. The fire crack­les soft­ly in the hearth, and for a moment, he believes every­thing can stay the same.

    In the fol­low­ing days, David notices the small ways his father slows. Walks are short­er. Chores are left undone. He spends more time in his chair, star­ing at the trees. David begins to take on more tasks, not out of duty, but love. Cook­ing, sweep­ing, even attempt­ing to fix a squeaky door—all become his way of say­ing “stay with me.” His father watch­es with a qui­et smile, proud but pained. At night, David plays longer. He pours into the strings every dream, every moment, try­ing to fill the room with hope, unaware that his father is prepar­ing to say good­bye.

    One after­noon, they sit out­side, the sun soft on their faces. His father places a lock­et in David’s hand, inside it, a tiny por­trait of a woman David has nev­er met. He says it is some­one David will some­day under­stand. Then he gives him a let­ter and tells him to wait until it’s time. These are not just tokens. They are a map to the future, care­ful­ly placed in David’s heart.

    This chap­ter is more than a scene; it is an emo­tion­al land­scape. It offers a gen­tle, pro­found intro­duc­tion to the deep bond between a father and son liv­ing apart from soci­ety, unit­ed by music, nature, and qui­et love. The tragedy that looms is soft­ened by the rich­ness of their con­nec­tion. The moun­tain home, though phys­i­cal­ly small, becomes vast through the emo­tions it holds. This is where David’s sto­ry begins—not with loss, but with a foun­da­tion strong enough to car­ry him through what comes next. It reminds us that soli­tude can shape wis­dom, that beau­ty can coex­ist with pain, and that even in part­ing, there can be pur­pose.

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