Page 69 of Augustine
No signature. No goodbye.
I folded the paper and set it on the table, then reached into the box. The tissue crinkled and caught on my nails, but when I pulled it out, I couldn’t breathe for a second.
It was a baby blanket. Hand-made, thick as armor, the yarn dyed midnight blue and stitched with white skulls and red roses. In one corner, the old D’Agossa patch—my family’s crest, the one I’d never wanted to wear. In the other, a single red scythe. No words, no names, just the history of two feuding tribes sewn together with a needle and thread.
The whole room was quiet now. Even the loudmouths and the old timers. Everyone watched as I held the blanket, my hands shaking, my eyes burning so bad I had to blink a dozen times to keep from letting it all spill out.
Augustine put his arm around my shoulders. “You okay?” he asked, but it was a stupid question.
I nodded anyway. “Yeah. I just…” The tears hit, hot and fast, and I wiped them away with the heel of my hand. “I think I finally believe he loved me. In his own fucked up way.”
Augustine didn’t say anything. He just pulled me closer, let me bury my face in his chest, the smell of oil and sweat and cigarette smoke grounding me in the here and now.
Seneca cleared his throat, then said, “That’s the ugliest goddamn blanket I’ve ever seen. You sure you want to keep it?”
I laughed, wet and messy, but real. “I wouldn’t trade it for the world.”
The clubhouse let out a collective sigh, then the noise returned, brighter this time, as if everyone felt the temperature shift. A few of the old ladies drifted over, fingers tracing the stitches, clucking and oohing like they’d just seen a miracle. I let them touch it, let them pass it around, felt the weight of history turn into something lighter.
When the baby started to kick again, Augustine put his hand on my stomach and said, “You wanna go home?”
“Not yet,” I said. “I want to stay a while.”
He kissed my cheek, then stood to talk shop with Seneca, leaving me at the table, hands folded around the blanket, the letter tucked safe inside.
For the first time, I felt the old world and the new one blur at the edges. Maybe there was a way to keep both. Maybe the future didn’t have to be all or nothing.
I stayed in that moment, wrapped in warmth and noise, and let myself believe in it.
When it was time to leave, I folded the blanket and tucked it under my arm, the patch visible for everyone to see. The past wasn’t dead. It was just waiting for me to claim it.
Augustine led me out, hand on the small of my back, and the sun hit us square in the face, bright and sharp.
We walked home together, the future wide open, and the ghosts finally quiet.
