Chapter 1
Another damn Wednesday afternoon.
I dragged my exhausted feet out of the New York Art Institute's main entrance, backpack stuffed with freshly completed photography assignments and a pile of unfinished sketches.
Brooklyn's autumn wind cut right through me, reminding me that this jacket I'd been wearing since high school should've been retired ages ago.
But retirement costs money, and money was always a scarce resource for me.
I pulled out my phone to check my bank balance, greeted by that familiar number: $247. Subtract what I needed for the rest of the month, and I had maybe fifty bucks to blow. Blow my ass – that wouldn't even cover a decent blanket.
Last night, wrapped in that paper-thin sheet, I'd practically frozen all night. Lily kept saying I should buy something thicker, but she didn't get it. Every dollar meant something to me. Her parents sent her money monthly, while my mom was barely keeping her own head above water.
"Fuck it, might as well check the thrift store." I muttered to myself, turning toward Brooklyn's secondhand district.
The shop called "Memory Capsule" was wedged between a row of rundown buildings, its neon sign half-broken with only "Memory" still flickering stubbornly. Small place, but you could always find cheap household stuff.
Pushing through the door, I was hit with that familiar smell of mildew. Hans, the shop owner, was sorting through receipts behind the counter and glanced up at me.
"Back again, kid? What're you looking for?"
"Bedding," I said straight up. "The cheap kind."
Hans pointed toward the dark corner in the back. "Got some new stuff over there. Family dropped it off a few days ago after some old lady passed. Help yourself."
I walked toward that dim corner where several cardboard boxes were scattered around. Most of it was outdated clothes and old-fashioned decorations, but in the bottom box, I saw it.
A velvet blanket.
I reached out to touch it, and holy shit. The texture was unbelievable. Soft, heavy, with this luxurious sheen that was obvious even in the crappy lighting. This was definitely not ordinary stuff, and it sure as hell didn't belong in a place like this.
I flipped over the price tag: $20.
'This has got to be a mistake.'
I carried the blanket to the counter. Hans glanced at it and shrugged.
"That's the price," he said. "Previous owner died, family's in a rush to clear everything out. Some old lady's stuff. Heard she was pretty well-off, but the family just wants to get rid of it all fast. You want it, take it."
I hesitated. But this blanket's quality... I'd probably never get another chance like this.
"Alright, I'll take it."
After paying, I walked out clutching the blanket.
When I got back to the apartment, Lily wasn't home yet. Our shared space was just a one-bedroom, and my "bedroom" was really just a corner of the living room sectioned off with a curtain. Not luxury, but it was home.
I spread the blanket across my bed. The deep blue velvet gleamed under the fluorescent light. Touching it was even more amazing – like being wrapped in clouds.
'Finally gonna get a good night's sleep.'
2 AM, I woke up from light sleep.
The whole apartment was quiet except for faint TV sounds from next door. I was wrapped tight in my new velvet blanket, feeling more warm and comfortable than I ever had. This thing was like it was custom-made for me, every inch of my skin gently surrounded.
Half-asleep, I adjusted my position and instinctively hugged it tighter. That's when a clear male voice suddenly spoke right next to my ear:
"Jesus, don't hold so tight, I can barely breathe."
I shot up, heart pounding like it was trying to escape my chest.
Nobody else was in the room. Streetlight filtered through the curtains, everything looked normal as always. I sat up scanning the room, confirmed the door was still locked, windows shut tight.
'Must be hearing things.' I told myself. 'Too much stress.'
But that voice sounded so real, so clear. Deep, magnetic, with something I couldn't quite name. Definitely not like a dream or hallucination.
I lay back down and deliberately hugged the blanket tight, trying to prove it was just my imagination.
"This feels... strange but warm."
This time I was sure – that voice came again. I jumped back like I'd been burned, sitting bolt upright.
"What the fuck?" I said to the empty room, my voice shaking.
This was too weird. A blanket I bought from a thrift store, how could it possibly...? I stared at the velvet spread across my bed. It looked so harmless, so ordinary. But what just happened was definitely not my imagination.
I reached out to touch it again, and the second my fingers made contact with the fabric, my phone started ringing.
In the dead silence of night, the ringtone was sharp enough to pierce eardrums. I nearly jumped out of my skin, fumbling around to find my phone.
An unknown number on the screen.
Who the hell calls at 2 AM?
I hesitated, then answered anyway.
"Hello?"
"Sorry to bother you this late," came a deep, resonant voice from the other end. "I'm Raphael. This is going to sound strange... but it feels like someone's hugging me?"
My grip tightened on the phone, nearly dropping it. That voice... it was the same one I'd just heard.
"Who... who are you?" I tried to keep my voice steady.
"Raphael Ashford, I live in Manhattan. I know this sounds insane, but I just felt this really real sensation of being embraced, very warm and comforting. I thought it was stress-induced hallucinations, but..." He paused. "Do you think I'm losing my mind?"
I looked at the velvet blanket on my bed, heart racing faster and faster.
"No, I don't think you're crazy," I said carefully. "Can you describe the feeling?"
"Like being surrounded by something really soft, warm and comfortable, but sometimes it felt a bit... suffocating? Like someone was holding too tight."
My breathing got rapid. This couldn't be coincidence.
"Why did you call me?" I asked. "How do you have my number?"
Silence on the other end for a few seconds.
"Honestly, I don't know. When I felt that embracing sensation, this number just popped into my head. I know it sounds crazy, but I just... knew I should call this number."
I stared at the blanket, starting to realize something beyond my understanding might be happening.
"How do you feel now?" I asked.
"Strangely... calm. Like that tense feeling from before just disappeared. What about you? Are you feeling anything?"
I looked at the time on my phone screen: 2:07 AM.
"I..." I hesitated, not knowing how to explain. "I think we might need to talk. But not now, not over the phone."
"You're right." Raphael's voice sounded relieved. "Tomorrow? I could..."
"Wait," I interrupted. "You said you live in Manhattan?"
"Yes, near the Financial District. I work at an investment bank."
Of course. Investment bank, Manhattan, Raphael Ashford – a name that sounded aristocratic as hell. I should've figured.
"I live in Brooklyn," I said, suddenly feeling inexplicably uneasy. "We're... we're from very different worlds."
"Distance isn't a problem," he said, his voice carrying a determination I couldn't read. "If you're willing to meet."
"Okay," I finally said. "We'll talk tomorrow."
After hanging up, I sat on the edge of my bed, staring at this blanket that had changed everything.
