“It was down on the beach by the Pridelands,” Hex says, still out of breath as his hands unconsciously mime the motions of his hunt. “It washed up on the rocks up the shore. Siren spotted it first. I had to climb over a bunch of stuff to get it.” He hesitates, then adds, “It’s not really…salvageable, I think.”
His words hang in the air, raw and damp as the blanket itself. I try to blink away the sting of disappointment, but the feeling is as thick and bitter as seawater. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Rafe, arms still crossed but his stern façade already cracking as he watches the reunion unfold.
For a moment, we’re all suspended in the same realization—we failed.
I shake my head, fighting for composure as I whisper, “I don’t think there’s any point trying to mend it. It’s destroyed.”
My hands tremble as I look at my sad familiar, feeling useless once more. Rafe snorts, a sound sharp enough to snap my attention back to him.
“Defeatists—all of you,” he says. He uncrosses his arms and walks forward, taking the sodden blanket from my hands with a deliberateness that borders on reverence. Holding it up between his thumb and forefinger, he turns it this way and that, and for a moment I think he might give in. But he regards me with a calm, firm expression as he holds it aloft for us to look at again.
“Its original form is beaten up,” he admits. “But there’s always something salvageable if it’s important enough. If you love something, it’s worth a try, isn’t it?”
I blink, unprepared for his pivot. “When did you grow that optimism bone?” I ask, my voice coming out thick with disbelief and a whiff of accusation.
The clone shrugs, not letting me get away with making light of his words. “It’s not optimism; it’s just a fact. If it’s worth having, it’s worth working for.”
There’s a flinty determination in his voice that’s not normal for him. I look at Siren, expecting her to make a cutting remark, but she’s quiet, her eyes fixed on Aradia and the remains of the blanket.
Maybe this isn’t entirely about the blanket.
“What do you suggest then, Mr. Analyzation?” I say, defaulting to sarcasm to protect myself.
Rafe doesn’t take the bait. He looks at Aradia for a long, unbroken moment, and then back at me. “Cherish what’s left of it—hold on to it. It was something special; it still can be. From what’s left, you add new material. You build a fresh blanket.
The words land like stones in a bucket. I stare at him, at the blanket, and then at Aradia’s unblinking eyes. The room seems to fill with possibility; it’s not about repair, but something more tenacious. He’s talking about the likelihood that what’s ruined can still be loved, even if it must be remade.
“You can’t replace something that meant that much,” I murmur, my voice breaking on the last word. “It’ll never be the same.”
My primary shakes his head, but there’s no rebuke in it. “Of course not. It doesn’t mean it’ll be less special because it’s different. The new version could grow to be even more special because of how you had to work for it. It might not be easy andwon’t happen overnight; you could still grow to love it just as much.”
His words find the cracked places inside me and settle there like seeds in windblown soil. I try to picture what he’s describing—a patchwork blanket, with the original at its core, surrounded by scraps and pieces of fresh stories stitched onto the bones of the old.
This is definitely not about the damn blanket.
I wonder if Aradia will accept the new version, or if I can. The silence is dense, and the air presses against my skin. I think about what we’ve lost, and what we might recover. The blanket, limp and ruined in his hands, seems to pulse with memories, as this place does for me.
It’s Siren who finally breaks the spell. She steps forward, her movements precise, as she crouches beside Aradia. The droid’s eyes are impossible to read, but her voice is soft as she addresses the tiger. “She will remember it,” Siren says. “Maybe not the same way we would, but she will know it’s hers. Even if it’s different, she’d rather have it than nothing.”
Aradia raises her head, and I hand Siren the destroyed item. My tiger presses her wet nose into the ruined folds, inhaling with a guttural rumble. She doesn’t make the sound of joy I wanted, but the one that escapes isn’t quite grief either.
Maybe it’s something closer to acceptance?
Rafe kneels beside my familiar and strokes her fur in steady, anchoring lines. “You could help, you know,” Rafe says as he looks up at me from his spot on the floor. “Hex could use help to make the new one. Otherwise, I can do it.”
“I don’t sew,” I mutter, but Rafe only shrugs. “Neither do I, but I can learn.”
Siren smiles then, and I realize it’s the first unguarded smile she’s shown all day. “It can be a group project; we will all assist, even if it is not perfect.”
Hex, who was quietly picking at loose threads on his jeans, looks up. “I’ll…try not to be a tyrant about how bad you all are?”
We all laugh, not because it was a good joke, but because it’s the only thing we can do.
The droid takes the remains and smiles down at my tiger. “Broken, but not destroyed. It smells the same; it’s made of the same stuff. It just needs a bit of work. Can I do that for you, girl?”
Aradia eyes him as if she’s unsure. Then something sparks in her eyes, and she tugs it from his hand, laying it on her paws and nuzzling it with a rumbling purr. The most amazing thing happens next—the smallest trickle of a tear slides down over her nose and onto the material.
I thought ‘tears of a tiger’ was just a saying until that moment. A tremendous wave of emotion flows over me, and it almost floors me.
