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Sunday sunlight slanted through the tall windows, catching in the steam curling from Agatha’s untouched mug of tea. The porcelain cup sat abandoned on the side table, forgotten the moment she’d begun her slow, deliberate pacing. Her steps traced the same quiet path across the living room—pivot, cross the rug, pause by the window, pivot again—each turn measured, but threaded through with the sort of restless energy she carried before meeting someone who mattered in ways she hadn’t yet defined.
Rio had been watching for the better part of ten minutes from the armchair, legs folded beneath her like a contented cat, chin resting in her palm. The faint smirk playing at her lips deepened with every circuit Agatha made.
“You’ve faced dissertation committees with less fidgeting, love,” Rio finally said, her tone soft but edged with amused warmth.
Agatha glanced over her shoulder, one dark brow arching with dignified offense. “I am not fidgeting.”
“You’re orbiting,” Rio corrected, straightening slightly. “Big difference. Fidgeting is what normal mortals do. You’re more… planetary.”
Agatha gave her a look that was half a glare, half an almost-smile. She muttered something about needing to straighten the cushions and reached for one that was already perfectly aligned, pressing her palm across its fabric as though perfection could be improved.
Rio stretched slowly, vertebrae popping, then unfolded herself from the armchair. “They’re not arriving for another…” she checked the clock with deliberate slowness “…twelve minutes and twenty-three seconds.” She stepped into Agatha’s path before her wife could make another loop. “And they already like you.”
“That remains to be seen,” Agatha murmured, her eyes sliding toward the window again.
“And,” Rio went on, “they’ve never really met me, which is obviously their loss. But I’m charming. You’ll see—I’ll win them over before dessert.” She leaned in to press a quick kiss to Agatha’s cheek, her hand finding its way briefly to the small of her back. “Come on, love. Breathe.”
Agatha did breathe, but it was shallow and distracted, her gaze still drawn toward the window as though the first sight of their guests would settle something she couldn’t name. Outside, the world was washed in soft gold, the air thick with the quiet promise of an afternoon that could tilt one way or another.
When the doorbell rang—precisely on time—Agatha moved with that fluid grace Rio had long since recognized as her wife’s defense against feeling unsettled.
She opened the door to find Cecilia and James framed in a wash of early afternoon light.
Cecilia looked exactly as Agatha remembered from the memorial, though there was a warmth in her now that hadn’t been there in that solemn moment -—a small easing in her eyes, a smile that felt less like ceremony and more like a welcome. Her silver hair were pinned back in an elegant twist, catching the light like spun frost, and her coat was a deep plum that seemed chosen with care, the kind of detail that made Agatha wonder if she had dressed for this meeting as deliberately as she had.
James, tall and gently stooped, had the air of someone who’d lived enough to know the value of arriving with gifts. A pie rested carefully in one hand, the crimped crust golden and rustic, while the other cradled a bottle of wine. His dark overcoat shifted with the faint breeze at their backs, the scent of leaves and grass curling in with them.
“Agatha,” Cecilia said warmly, her voice like a familiar old melody. “Thank you for inviting us.”
“Please, come in.” Agatha stepped back, her hand lingering on the doorframe for a heartbeat longer than necessary, as though the wood might anchor her before they crossed into her space.
The moment they did, something shifted. It wasn’t dramatic or Loud, but more more like the quiet settling of a piece into the right place on a chessboard. They moved through the entryway with an ease that made it seem as though they belonged here, as though they’d walked these halls before. They hadn’t, but the sense of rightness was almost unsettling in its immediacy.
From the living room doorway, Rio watched, her gaze flicking between her wife and their guests. She noticed how Agatha’s eyes—keen and searching—followed Cecilia and James with care. She wasn’t simply observing them, she was listening for something beneath the surface, scanning the tilt of Cecilia’s head, the rhythm of her voice, the soft way James’s gaze rested on his companion. Looking for Eugenia’s shadow in their movements, as though catching even the smallest echo might bridge decades.
Cecilia turned then, her expression brightening as her attention landed on Rio. She extended her hand, and Rio stepped forward to take it. “Rio. Hello. It’s a pleasure to properly meet you.”
Rio’s smile came easily, her grip warm and sure. “Likewise. It’s an honor—and a privilege—to meet my wife’s family.”
The word hung in the air for a fraction of a second longer than casual conversation required. Family. No one here shared blood, but in that instant, the letter, the will, and the stories untold between them made the word ring true in a different register. It was Rio’s subtle way of saying: I know what this means. I’m here to honor it.
Cecilia smiled and took the pie from her husband's hands to handed over the pie with a little laugh. “This is an old recipe from my mother. She swore by it. I hope you like blackberries.”
“And this,” James added, holding out the wine, “is from a vineyard we stumbled across years ago in Italy. Thought it might suit the afternoon.”
“Thank you,” Agatha said, her tone warm but carefully measured. She gestured toward the sitting room. “Please, make yourselves comfortable.”
Rio caught the almost imperceptible pause Agatha made before turning away—just enough to steady herself before the next step. And quietly, without making a show of it, Rio moved closer, brushing her hand against Agatha’s as they led the way in.
The guests removed their coats and moved easily into the space, as though guided by an invisible familiarity.
Once they were settled—Cecilia sinking gracefully into the sofa, James leaning back into the armchair beside her—their bodies angled toward one another in that instinctive way people do when they’ve shared decades of conversation. It was the posture of deep companionship, of knowing how the other would react before a word was spoken.
Cecilia’s gaze drifted across the room, pausing on the low shelf where framed photographs lined up like sentinels of family history. She leaned forward slightly, her smile tugging wider. “And where are the little ones?” she asked, her tone carrying a brightness that felt genuine—curiosity without obligation.
“At my mother’s for the day,” Rio replied before Agatha could answer, her voice light. She shifted to pour tea into delicate china cups. “She staged a whole campaign about it, actually. Said we should have ‘grown-up company without tiny sticky hands climbing the furniture.’”
“She insisted,” Agatha added, smoothing the skirt over her knees as she sat in the armchair opposite James. “But she’ll bring them back later, so you might get to see them before you go.”
“Oh, I’d like that very much,” Cecilia said softly, her eyes momentarily far away—perhaps picturing a little girl’s unsteady steps or a boy’s unrestrained laughter echoing through the house. «Interesting ages, isn’t it ? »
“That’s right,” Rio said, settling herself on the arm of Agatha’s chair as though she belonged there—and she did. She draped an arm lightly along the back, fingertips brushing Agatha’s shoulder in a casual, grounding gesture. “Nicky’s eight and asking questions about anything and everything, and Violet’s just learned she can point at things and expect us to drop everything to get them for her. Which she abuses shamelessly.”
James chuckled, the sound low and warm. “That’s the privilege of being the youngest. My sister’s boy was the same—had us trained like servants before he could talk.”
Agatha’s mouth quirked at that, though she didn’t quite smile. “Violet has… presence,” she said wryly, earning a soft laugh from Cecilia.
“She gets it from you,” Rio murmured, just loud enough for the others to hear, her smirk giving away the tease.
Agatha shot her a sidelong look, one that made James’ eyes twinkle in amusement.
The tea was poured, the steam curling up into the early-afternoon light. The pie sat in the kitchen, waiting its turn alongside the unopened bottle of wine. For now, the air held that delicate quiet of a first meeting that might one day feel like it had been happening forever—where every exchanged glance and half-smile was a thread in the slow weaving of a connection.
The absence of the children was striking.
Usually there would be the erratic drumbeat of Nicky’s running feet from the hallway, Violet’s sudden squeals of delight when she discovered some new sound her toys could make, the faint patter of curious toddler hands exploring the edges of furniture she wasn’t supposed to touch.
Now the house felt uncharacteristically still—its quiet was not heavy, but present, as though every breath and clink of china lingered longer in the air. The silence seemed to give the conversation to come more room, stretching it out into an unhurried rhythm.
Cecilia rested her mug against her knee and studied Agatha for a long, thoughtful moment, her gaze unflinching but not invasive. “You know,” she said at last, her voice warm and certain, “you do look like her.”
Agatha’s head tilted, the smallest crease appearing between her brows. “Like… Eugenia?”
“Yes.” Cecilia’s smile curved slowly, like she was savoring the recognition and the memory. “Same hair, same eyes. That calm sort of intelligence that made you feel she’d already thought through every possible outcome before you’d even finished your sentence.”
James gave a soft chuckle from the armchair, leaning back with a kind of easy familiarity. “And the way you sit—straight-backed, shoulders open. Your aunt could silence a whole room just by walking into it.”
Agatha’s lips curved faintly, but there was a flicker—guardedness, maybe—in her expression. “She always struck me as… perfectly composed.”
“Oh, she was,” Cecilia agreed readily, “but that wasn’t all of her. Eugenia had a streak in her.”
“A streak?” Agatha repeated, her tone caught between skepticism and intrigue.
“Not wild, exactly—she wasn’t reckless,” Cecilia said, a touch of fond amusement in her voice, “but she had her own quiet ways of bending the rules.”
Rio, who had been listening from her perch on the arm of Agatha’s chair, perked up. Her elbow rested lightly on the backrest, chin in her palm, eyes glinting. “Bending the rules? This sounds promising.”
Cecilia laughed—an unselfconscious, genuine sound. “Well… she had this habit of sneaking off campus in our third year at university. She’d tell the professor she was going to the library and then—poof—vanish for the afternoon.”
Agatha’s brow rose, curiosity slipping past her careful reserve. “Where would she go?”
“To poetry readings,” Cecilia said, her eyes bright with the memory. “Not the polite, departmental sort, with faculty introductions and perfectly timed applause. No—these were in the cramped back rooms of cafés, with the smell of burnt coffee and clove cigarettes hanging in the air. The poets would read about women’s bodies, women’s rage, love that didn’t fit in neat boxes… She adored it. We both did.”
James smiled faintly, his voice quiet but sure. “She came back from those readings with her eyes alight. Like she’d swallowed something electric.”
His gaze softened as he glanced at Cecilia, his voice lowering as though speaking into a memory. “I was the one who drove her sometimes. Or, well…” He let out a quiet laugh and leaned back, the chair creaking under his weight. “More often than not, she’d just climb onto the back of my motorbike, hair pinned neat like she was heading to a lecture, and off we’d go—thirty minutes to the next town over.” His grin turned nostalgic. “There was this little bookstore—cramped, smelled like old paper and rain-damp wool. Dusty shelves stacked so close you had to turn sideways to pass. And the owner knew every spine by heart and would light up if you asked about something obscure.”
He paused, as though the picture of it was right there in front of him. “She’d disappear between the shelves for hours, pulling down first editions of Adrienne Rich, slipping slim volumes of French poetry under her arm like they were secrets she wanted to uncover. Sometimes she wouldn’t even buy anything—just read, perched on a stool in the corner with her coat still on.”
Agatha’s gaze moved between them, the image forming with every word. “I never pictured her on a motorbike,” she admitted with a littke smile.
“That was the thing about Eugenia,” Cecilia said, her tone carrying both fondness and a trace of mischief. “She knew exactly how to move in the world so that no one suspected she had any edges at all—until you looked closely. Then you’d see them.”
Rio, who had now been lounging with one knee hooked over the arm of Agatah’s chair, smirked over her mug. “Sounds suspiciously like someone else I know.”
Agatha turned her head slowly, arching a brow at her wife in a silent warning. The corner of her mouth, however, betrayed her with the faintest quirk upward.
Cecilia caught the exchange and her smile deepened, her eyes sharpening with curiosity. “You have her poise, Agatha, but… do you have the edges?”
Agatha opened her mouth, but Rio was already answering, her tone matter-of-fact. “More than she’ll admit. Trust me.”
James chuckled, lifting his glass in a small, deliberate toast toward Agatha. “Then I think she’d be proud.”
The warmth of it settled between them, mingling with the scent of tea and blackberry pie drifting in from the kitchen, the afternoon light turning the room golden. The conversation didn’t rush: there was no need.
Agatha was halfway through a sip of tea when James leaned forward with a conspiratorial grin. “Oh—did Cecilia tell you about her graduation stunt?”
Cecilia’s eyes lit up. “Oh yes, you’ll love this.”
Agatha set her cup down, brows lifting. “Graduation stunt?” Her tone was half-skeptical, half-intrigued—as if she couldn’t quite reconcile the words with the woman she’d always pictured.
James was already laughing at the memory. “Eugenia was valedictorian. Big day, the university all puffed up and proper. They had this… unspoken but very firm idea about what a ‘lady’ valedictorian should wear for the ceremony. Floor-length dress, snesible shoes, maybe a string of pearls if they were feeling wild. She took one look at the guidelines and said, ‘Absolutely not.’”
Cecilia took over, her hands already sketching the scene in the air. “She showed up in trousers. Not just any trousers, mind you—perfectly tailored, black as midnight, with a razor crease you could cut yourself on. And boots—high, polished leather boots that clicked against the stage with every single step, as if she were daring someone to interrupt her. Her blouse was cream silk, sleeves full and dramatic, like she’d walked straight out of a 1940s film. Hair swept up, red lipstick, earrings that caught the light every time she turned her head.” Cecilia’s smile softened, her voice dipping and her cheek flushing slightly. The scene had clearly been burnt into her brain “…She looked devastating.”
Agatha’s lips curved, but her eyes had sharpened in interest. “And no one stopped her?”
James nearly spilled his wine in his eagerness to answer. “Not a soul. She strode across that stage like she’d built it herself, gave a speech that had half the crowd in tears, and walked back to her seat without breaking stride. I swear you could feel the air shift around her.” His grin widened. « I thought Evanora and Eudora were going to combust on the spot from the audience. They’d already graduated, but I think their parents dragged them there to play the role of dutiful older sisters.”
At that, Agatha laughed—an unguarded, surprised laugh that warmed the room. “I can picture it. They always had that tight-lipped expression when something offended their sense of propriety.”
“Oh, this wasn’t just tight-lipped,” James said, half doubled over. “Evanora looked like she’d swallowed a lemon whole, and Eudora—God—she had this vein in her temple that only showed when she was truly livid. It was practically pulsing.”
Cecilia shook her head fondly. “Eugenia never wasted her time trying to impress the wrong people. She knew exactly which rules were worth following, and which deserved to be broken in style.”
Agatha’s smile lingered, but there was a softness to it now—like the story had slotted into some missing space in her mind.
James leaned back, still grinning like the memory was too good to keep to himself. “And speaking of her bending rules—we should tell you both about the other book club.”
Agatha frowned. “Book club?”
“Oh, not the faculty book club,” Cecilia said quickly. “This was our other one. The secret one.” She shot James a glance—the kind of glance you give someone who knows the exact smell of the room you’re remembering, the exact scrape of the chairs on the floor, the exact feeling of walking in and exhaling for the first time all week. “We met every other Thursday night in the back room of a café downtown. Not a chain—one of those narrow, leaning old buildings where the coffee tasted faintly of the wood in the shelves.”
James nodded, the corners of his mouth softening. “It wasn’t just about books. It was about having a space that belonged to us. Somewhere the world’s rules didn’t quite reach. It doubled as a queer community, before it was safe to be open.”
“The late seventies,” Cecilia added, leaning forward. “People like to imagine it was all freedom by then, but not where we were. Not in our little enclave of old money and older prejudices. Out there, you kept your voice down. In that café, we didn’t.”
James’s voice dropped slightly, as if even now there was a trace of that secrecy in his bones. “We’d choose a poet, or a novel—sometimes translations of Renée Vivien, sometimes James Baldwin, sometimes someone local who’d passed us a stapled-together manuscript and prayed we’d read it. We’d argue, we’d read aloud, we’d scribble notes in margins… and somehow it turned into a kind of… lifeline. A reminder that we weren’t alone.”
Cecilia’s tone gentled into something almost wistful. “It wasn’t loud or flashy the way people think of activism now, but for us, it was radical. It was the only place we could talk about the lives we wanted—really wanted—without someone slamming a door in our faces.”
Rio, who had been uncharacteristically quiet, sat forward slightly, her gaze steady on them. “And Eugenia went?”
“Every time she could,” James said without a breath of hesitation. “She never needed to be the loudest voice in the room. Just her sitting there, leaning back in her chair, gave people permission to say things they’d never said out loud. And when she did speak…” He trailed off, shaking his head with something between awe and longing. “She had this way of taking a messy, unshaped feeling and putting it into one clean sentence that cut straight through you. Made you feel… seen.”
Agatha’s hands tightened a fraction around her mug, the weight of what could have been settling in again. She could almost see it: Eugenia in that dim café light, a book open in front of her, surrounded by people who looked at each other the way she and Rio did everyday.
Cecilia’s hand rested lightly over James’s, like one might absentmindedly rest a bookmark in a much-read novel. She smiled faintly, gaze going somwhere far away.
“I suppose,” she began, voice softer now, “the very first time I saw her—really saw her—was in the library. We both reached for the same book. The Collected Poems of Amy Lowell.” She gave a small, almost self-mocking laugh, shaking her head. “I know, it sounds like something from a dreadful romantic film, doesn’t it?”
Agatha’s mouth curved in the faintest smirk. “Only if you tripped, and the book went sliding in slow motion to the floor.”
“Nearly,” Cecilia replied with a flash of amusement. “Though in my memory, I think the moment felt slower. She let me take it, but she looked at me like she already knew I was going to read it twice in a week and come back for more. And she was right. I came back, and so did she.”
James chuckled under his breath. “She had a habit of doing that—spotting the people who were going to matter to her before they even knew it themselves.”
Rio’s hand, resting on the arm of Agatha’s chair, twitched slightly as if resisting the urge to reach for her wife’s fingers. “Again. Sounds familiar,” she murmured.
Agatha tilted her head toward her without breaking eye contact with Cecilia, the faintest arch of an eyebrow betraying that she’d heard it too.
“The next time we crossed paths,” Cecilia went on, “was at a protest on campus. Women’s rights. The administration called it ‘disruptive activity,’ of course.” A flicker of pride sparked in her expression. “She was wearing this enormous hat and absurdly oversized sunglasses so that, if photographs turned up anywhere, her family wouldn’t recognize her. She was carrying a sign that read: The personal is political.”
Rio smiled. “Sounds like her, from what we’ve heard so far.”
“Oh, it was her through and through,” Cecilia said, “We ended up walking back to the dorms together that day. She quoted one line from Amy Lowell—the same book we had reached for at the same time in the library. I remember it so clearly. It said “Tell me, was Venus more beautiful than you are, when she topped the crinkled waves. »
The words hung in the air for a beat, like a ribbon drifting down before settling. Agatha’s gaze flickered to Rio for just a moment, and Rio, without looking up, brushed her thumb over the rim of her mug—both aware of the current moving between them.
Cecilia closed her eyes briefly, as if tasting the memory. When she opened them again to look at the younger couple in front of her, her expression carried a softness that made it impossible to tell whether she was still speaking to her audience or to the past
“And… well, from then on, we were in each other’s lives.” She paused for a moment, the words gathering weight. “We fell in love quietly—slipped notes under doors, met for tea in the common room long after everyone had gone to bed. We learned how to laugh without letting it carry too far down the hallway. We learned how to stand close without seeming to touch. That was the way it had to be.”
James, watching her, looked at her with a kind of open tenderness that made Rio’s chest ache. “They were—” he started, then stopped, and settled for, “They were good for each other. Even when they had to be careful.”
Cecilia nodded slowly, as though weighing each word before letting it go. “After graduation, we decided… not to keep it going in the same way. It was easier to part -- at least on paper. Safer.” Her gaze fell to the dark surface of her tea, where the steam curled and broke apart. “But we stayed friends. For years. Always in touch. Always… something more than friends, even if we both kept up the pretense.”
Agatha tilted her head slightly, her voice low but steady. “You were still in love.”
A faint, wistful smile touched Cecilia’s lips. “Yes. We were. And eventually—much later—we stopped pretending. By then, I was married to James. And before you ask—” she chuckled softly at Rio’s arched brow— “no, it wasn’t a tragedy. It was the arrangement that made the most sense for all of us. And we do love each other dearly.”
She turned toward her husband, her expression softening. James met her look without hesitation, his arm sliding easily around her shoulders in a movement so natural it felt like breathing.
“James had his own life to live,” Cecilia went on. “Our marriage gave each of us cover in a world that still wasn’t safe for two women or two men to live openly together. Eugenia and I… we took what we could. Stolen hours, quiet days, weekends that belonged only to us. Behind closed doors, away from the eyes that might have ruined everything.”
James gave a short, approving nod. “It worked. It wasn’t perfect, but it was freedom in its own way. We protected each other.”
Cecilia’s voice dropped softer still. “We protected her. She’d already been through so much with her family. More than I can say. We weren’t going to let them take any more from her.”
Agatha’s fingers tightened subtly around the wineglass she had just poured--needing sth stronger-- but she didn’t speak. Rio, sitting close enough to feel the quiet shift in her wife’s body, slid down the armrest and reached over and brushed her hand lightly over Agatha’s knee—just enough to anchor her there.
The silence that followed wasn’t heavy. It was simply full—of the past, of the unspoken, of the pieces Agatha was still fitting together in her mind.
The lamplight had shifted warmer as the sun continued its course. It pooled across the room, catching in the curve of Cecilia’s cheek, in the soft shine of James’s wedding band where it rested against her shoulder. The air had taken on a sort of stillness that arrives when a story stops being just memory and starts becoming confession.
For a fleeting second, it was as though the years folded in on themselves— the past and present meeting in a single room, four people sitting in the quiet knowledge of what it means to love someone in a world that doesn’t always make it easy.
Cecilia’s voice wavered then—only slightly—but enough for James to tighten his hand over hers, thumb tracing slow circles against her knuckles. Across from them, Rio’s touch on Agatha mirrored the gesture, almost unconsciously, two pairs bound by quiet solidarity.
“The last time I saw her,” Cecilia began, and already her eyes were glassy, “was not the way I wanted to remember her… but I do. I remember every second.”
Agatha sat forward, as if some part of her needed to be physically closer to the words.
“She was ill by then,” Cecilia said, her voice dropping into something both reverent and pained. “It happened so fast. She didn’t… she didn’t tell many people, not until she had no choice. That was her way—she couldn’t stand the idea of being pitied. Or worse, seen as fragile.” She let out a sharp exhale that tried to pass as a laugh, but it cracked halfway through. “When she called me, I thought she wanted to get coffee, maybe drag me to that terrible little café she loved. She just asked if I could stop by. And I knew—” she shook her head slowly, eyes unfocused, “—I knew when I saw her face that she wasn’t calling to catch up.”
James’s voice joined in from beside her, low and careful, as though volume alone could protect the memory. “I went with her. She… she looked so small in that bed. It was strange—she was never small, not to me. Still had that stubborn set to her chin, though.” His lips quirked briefly, but his eyes didn’t follow. “She gave me hell for bringing flowers. Said she had no use for something that would die before she did.”
The corner of Cecilia’s mouth curved faintly at that, though the ache didn’t lift. “We didn’t talk about the illness, not really. We talked about books—argued over which of the three Brontë sisters deserved more credit—complained about the latest nonsense in the papers. We even laughed about that disastrous play we had seen years ago, the one with the lead who forgot his lines so badly the stage manager nearly passed out. We talked about you both and your latest article, Agatha. And then…” Her fingers tightened on the edge of her teacup, the porcelain trembling slightly. “When James stepped out to make tea, she took my hand.”
Agatha’s eyes softened, almost imperceptibly, but Rio saw it.
“She told me she was tired,” Cecilia said quietly. “Not the kind of tired you fix with rest. She said she’d fought enough battles for one lifetime, that she was… ready for quiet.”
Agatha’s breath hitched, the sound too quiet to be intentional, and Rio shifted closer, her hand brushing against Agatha’s arm in a barely-there touch.
“I told her,” Cecilia went on, “that I wasn’t ready to lose her. I wasn’t. I still wasn’t even when I knew it was coming. And she—” Cecilia paused, the memory pressing against her like a physical weight, “—she smiled at me in that way she had. Like she was tucking a secret into my pocket for safekeeping. She said, ‘You’ll never lose me. Not really.’ And I wanted to believe her so badly that I did. Right there. I believed her. And I still do.”
James swallowed hard, his gaze fixed on the carpet as though it could hold him steady. “She passed two days later. Peacefully. In her sleep. We were told it was gentle, and I… I like to think that’s true.”
The silence that followed was absolute. Agatha’s hands had tightened into loose fists, resting on her knees, but her eyes shimmered in the soft light. “I didn’t even…” She stopped, took in a breath, started again. “I didn’t get to say goodbye.”
Cecilia leaned forward, her gaze steady and full of quiet strength. “She didn’t want you to see her like that, Agatha. It was her choice, the way she kept control until the very end. But she thought of you—more than you know. She made me promise to tell you she was proud of you. So proud.”
That broke something loose. Agatha blinked hard, and one tear slipped free. Before she could wipe it away, Rio’s hand was there, warm against her cheek, thumb catching the tear.
“It’s alright, love,” Rio murmured, low enough for only her to hear. “You can cry.”
And Agatha did—not in heaving sobs, but in quiet, steady tears that felt as inevitable as rain. Cecilia reached across the coffee table, laying her hand over Agatha’s for a moment, while James watched them all with a tenderness that carried his own loss.
“We all lost her,” Cecilia said softly, glancing at James, who nodded in agreement. “The love of my life, the truest friend he ever had.”
James’s voice came low and steady. “Some people never really leave us. You just… learn to live with their shape inside your life—the spaces they carved out and the echoes they left behind.”
Agatha closed her eyes briefly, breathing through the ache. Rio’s arm slid around her shoulders, drawing her in until her head rested lightly against Rio’s temple.
For a long moment, no one spoke.
The weight in the room lingered for a few more beats, a fragile thread of grief still weaving quietly between them. Then Cecilia cleared her throat softly, a gentle smile blooming at the corners of her lips as if coaxing the atmosphere toward something lighter. “Well,” she said, her voice warm and tender, “since we’ve all shared our solemn truths—how about a change of pace? I think we’ve earned a little brightness this afternoon. Tell us something happier, something that makes your heart sing.”
James shifted in his chair, clearing his throat as well, his tone easy and inviting, like a skilled captain steering a ship away from rough seas. “Yes, yes,” he said with a small grin, “I’ve heard whispers about that new poetry initiative you two have been spearheading. Why don’t you tell us all about it? It sounds like something truly special.”
Agatha’s expression shifted immediately—still tender from the earlier conversation, but now tinged with the kind of pride that warmed from the inside out. “Ah, yes,” she said, her tone smoothing into that lilting cadence she used when speaking about something she truly believed in. “It’s become quite the heartbeat on campus already. Thanks to a very generous anonymous donor, we’ve been able to set up a program dedicated to showcasing queer voices—writers, poets, storytellers—both students and visiting artists alike. We offer workshops, reading series, and even publishing opportunities. It’s been a whirlwind of activity, but incredibly rewarding.” Her eyes glimmered with quiet joy. “To see the community come alive around this project… well, it feels like we’re nurturing something vital.”
James nodded appreciatively, his smile growing warmer. “I like the sound of that. There’s something powerful about creating a space where voices often pushed to the margins can finally be heard.”
Rio smiled. « Yes, we got put in charge of it after I came back from maternity leave. The dean told us the donors specifically requested us. We still don’t know why, but we’re trying to honor that trust. »
She smiled softly. “The latest workshop was fantastic. We finished with an open mic session, and I swear—one of the sophomores gets up, clutching her notebook like it’s a lifeline. She starts reading this heartbreak poem, all raw emotion and longing, about being betrayed—you could practically feel the ache in the room.”
She glanced at Cecilia and James, her hands painting the scene with theatrical flair. “Then, out of nowhere, halfway through the poem, she stops, fixes a fierce glare toward the back of the room, and says, ‘I hope you’re happy, Josh.’”
Cecilia let out a soft laugh, covering her mouth delicately, while James chuckled, shaking his head. “Oh no. Poor Josh.”
Rio’s eyes sparkled with delight. “Oh, in that case poor Nina and poor Josh. Apparently, Josh had made some ill-timed joke about Nina’s crush on some middle-aged actress and Nina took it as him making fun of her bisexuality. Knowing him, he was probably being stupid and awkward. And Josh was right there, sinking lower and lower in his chair, probably wishing the floor would just swallow him whole while the whole room was suspended between awkward silence and barely suppressed laughter.”
She turned toward Agatha, grinning. “And Agatha—always the composed professor this one—didn’t even twitch. Not a smile, not a flicker. She was the very picture of calm authority.”
Agatha gave a small, knowing shrug. “Someone had to maintain order.”
Rio rolled her eyes fondly. “Order, sure. Meanwhile, I’m in the corner nearly choking on my coffee because it was so perfectly timed. But don’t worry, Nina and Josh got back together like two days after that. They’re just dramatic,” she added, as if she needed to reassure the older couple about the relationship status of two students they absolutely didn't know.
James shook his head with an amused grin, the corners of his eyes crinkling in delight. “Sounds like you’re running a very… colorful program,” he said, his voice warm with genuine admiration. “I imagine it’s not your typical stuffy university affair.”
“We are,” Agatha said, her smile turning almost private for a moment as she glanced at Rio. “It matters. It gives students—especially the ones who never see themselves reflected in the syllabus—the space to speak, to belong. I wish I’d had that when I was their age.”
Rio’s voice softened. “Me too. That’s exactly why we pour so much of ourselves into it.” She smiled, shaking her head slightly, as if both proud and a little overwhelmed by the responsibility. “These kids—” She paused, then corrected herself with a playful smirk, “Okay, these young adults—are brilliant. Some of them are going to reshape the literary world. We get to give them their first real platform. That’s huge.”
Agatha nodded, adding with enthusiasm, “And there’s another showcase coming up soon. We’re featuring work from both the students and the local community. It’s already grown bigger than we ever imagined when we started. One of our students, Emma, got a publishing opportunity with a little local editor and we’re trying to help her shape her first collection.”
Cecilia’s expression softened, the earlier sadness lifting as the warmth in their voices filled the room. Her smile was bittersweet but genuine. “Eugenia would’ve loved that,” she said quietly. “She believed so deeply in amplifying voices that might otherwise be ignored—those marginalized, overlooked stories. This program… it sounds like exactly the kind of work she’d have thrown herself into.”
Rio reached over, her hand finding Agatha’s knee. It was more than just encouragement, it was an intimate acknowledgment, a quiet ‘we’re doing good work, love.’
James smiled, watching them with gentle affection. “Well,” he said, “if that’s the kind of impact you’re making, I’m glad the university got the right people for the job.”
Cecilia nodded, her gaze steady. “Absolutely. It’s clear you’re not just teaching literature—you’re shaping minds and lives.”
Agatha’s smile deepened, the weight of everything they’d shared earlier lifting just a little more, replaced by the promise of what was still to come.
But then, Rio’s brow arched, suspicion mixing with curiosity.
“How do you even know about the initiative?” she asked, leaning back in her chair, one hand still in Agatha’s.
Cecilia and James exchanged a glance so brief and loaded it might as well have been a paragraph. It said, Well, here we go.
“That was us. The donation.” James said finally, his tone almost casual, though the way he clasped his hands betrayed a hint of nerves. “Well… mostly Eugenia’s idea. She insisted on keeping it anonymous so no one would make a fuss.”
Rio froze mid-sip. For a moment she looked like her brain had to reboot. Then she inhaled at precisely the wrong time and nearly choked, coughing once before setting the mug down with a thud.
“I’m sorry—what? You?!” She stared between them like they’d just revealed they were international jewel thieves.
Agatha blinked, her composure fracturing. The disbelief hit first, but it was quickly shadowed by something warmer, heavier— sudden emotion welling behind her eyes.
Cecilia leaned forward, her expression both fond and wistful. “Eugenia heard about it from an old friend—you remember Meredith Doyle? Her husband Leonard still golfs with Dean Montgomery when they’re down at the shore.”
Rio blinked at the absurdity of the chain of events.
“Anyway,” Cecilia continued, “Leonard mentioned over drinks that the English department wanted to fund something for queer poets, but the budget committee wasn’t approving it. Too niche, apparently.”
James snorted softly, shaking his head. “Same tired excuses they’ve been recycling for decades.”
Cecilia’s gaze softened, and her voice dropped to something quieter—something that carried both pride and a fresh edge of grief. “Eugenia didn’t even blink. She told us, ‘If we don’t make sure those voices have a place, who will?’ So the three of us made a decision. We pooled the funds, called it a donation, and told them to keep our names out of it. She wanted the spotlight on the poets, not the patrons. For once, all this money we didn’t earn in the first place was going toward something that actually mattered.”
Rio’s mouth opened, closed, then opened again, like a goldfish. “You’re telling me… this thing—this beautiful, amazing thing—exists because you three just… decided it should? And you didn’t say anything?”
James gave a small shrug. “We thought about it. But Eugenia was adamant. She wanted the work to stand on its own. And she wanted you two—” He motioned to Agatha and Rio with a slight smile. “—to run it without feeling indebted or obligated to us. She said there was no one better to run it than her brilliant niece and niece-in-law. She was very proud of you both, you know. Said she could rest easy knowing the right hands were carrying it forward.”
Agatha swallowed hard, trying to keep her voice steady. “I… I don’t know what to say.” Her hands, usually so deliberate in movement, twisted together for a moment before she stilled them. “That project—it’s already changing lives. It’s given our students a place to be unapologetically themselves. And you—” She glanced at both Cecilia and James, her voice catching just slightly. “You made that possible.”
Cecilia’s eyes softened. “Eugenia made that possible. We just followed her lead.”
Rio passed her hand through her hair, her own expression a mixture of awe and gratitude. “Okay, but—wow. You realize you’re not allowed to spring something like this on us without warning, right? I mean, there should be… I don’t know. A drumroll? A ceremonial confetti cannon? Maybe a marching band in the driveway?”
“I’ll make a note for next time,” James said dryly.
“I’m serious!” Rio said, though her grin betrayed her. “You can’t just drop a bomb like ‘oh by the way we secretly made your dream program possible’ and expect us to sip our coffee like it’s a normal Tuesday.”
“It’s Sunday,” Agatha murmured from the side.
Rio shot her a look, half exasperated, half in love. “You’re not helping.”
James’s laugh deepened, the sound warm and full. “You two really are exactly how Eugenia described.”
The humor softened again into something quieter, heavier—but not in a bad way. Ibut in the way that came from being trusted with a legacy, from realizing you’d been part of someone’s plan long before you knew it.
Agatha felt Rio’s hand find hers again, their fingers interlacing automatically. Beneath the warmth of Cecilia and James’s confession, she could almost feel Eugenia there—not in a ghostly way, but in the solid, reassuring sense that they were carrying forward something she’d believed in with all her heart.
It didn’t feel like a gift dropped in their laps.
It felt like a torch being passed down.
Her gaze had drifted somewhere just past Cecilia’s shoulder, as if the wallpaper there had suddenly become fascinating. Her fingers remained threaded through Rio’s, the other hand resting loosely in her lap. When she spoke, it was quiet—almost like she was talking to herself rather than the room.
“She could have told me.”
The room seemed to still for a moment. Cecilia’s eyes softened, a faint, wistful smile curving her lips. “She didn’t think she needed to. She knew you’d shine without her saying it—or her name backing you up.”
Agatha’s throat tightened. She could see it so clearly—Eugenia hovering just out of sight, making sure the stage was lit but never stepping into it herself. Always pulling strings, always keeping the attention on everyone else. It was infuriating, in the way only love could make something infuriating.
“She had a maddening habit of doing that,” Agatha murmured.
Cecilia’s expression gentled. “She called it ‘making room for others.’ But between us, I think she just liked watching from the wings. She could see more from there.”
Rio glanced at Agatha, before turning back to Cecilia and James. She leaned forward, her mouth curving into a grin that was deliberately brighter than the moment, her voice taking on a mock-serious tone. “Well, now we have to name something after her. Even if she comes back from the grave to scold us.”
James chuckled, low and warm. “Oh, she would scold you. Thoroughly.” He leaned back in his chair, shaking his head at the thought. “And then she’d secretly keep a framed photo of the plaque with her name on her desk.”
Cecilia laughed, nodding. “She’d pretend it is all terribly embarrassing… but every time someone visited, she’d just happen to mention it.”
Agatha’s lips twitched into a reluctant smile at the image--Eugenia, pretending to be above such sentiment while privately tucking away every flyer and program like contraband treasures. “Yes,” she said softly. “That sounds exactly like her.”
Rio turned her head just enough to catch Agatha’s eye and squeeeze her hand again. “We’ll make it something good,” she promised quietly, her voice low enough that it felt meant just for Agatha. “Something she’d be proud of.”
Agatha’s gaze lingered on Rio’s face for a long beat before she let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. The grief didn’t leave—it wouldn’t, not really—but it shifted. It felt warmer now, threaded with gratitude, with the strange comfort of knowing this truth had found her at last.
“Fine,” Agatha said, her tone pretending to be brisk though her eyes were glassy as she looked at her wife. “But if she haunts us for it, you’re the one explaining to her why we ignored her very clear instructions.”
Rio’s mouth curved into a smirk. “Oh, I’m counting on it. I’ve got a few things to say to her anyway.”
James grinned. “Now that, I’d pay to see.”
*
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