Geraldine

It was folded into quarters and tucked between pages of a Farmer’s Almanac from 1979.

Miles spotted the thick, yellowed paper right away–soft at the edges, like it had spent years basking in the sun on a windowsill.

He’d only found the book at all because he’d dropped his phone behind the couch. When he slid the old Chesterfield out to retrieve it, the Almanac fell to the floor, and the letter slipped out, like it wanted to be read.

He turned it over in his hands, frowning. Of course he’d find something like this here.

Everything in Mr. Harold’s old farmhouse felt a bit out of time.

The lonely old man–Mr. Harold, as Miles had always known him–had babysat him nearly every day growing up. After Harold passed, he’d left everything to Miles’ parents: no real family, just a will and a worn out bungalow packed full of an assortment of junk.

It was a picker’s dream…and a minimalist’s nightmare. Old tins of nails, antique screwdrivers, half-fixed appliances, cigar boxes full of foreign coins, and even old bottles that looked like they might be valuable.

Miles hadn’t been back since graduation.

He unfolded the letter.

August 14, 1979

Geraldine

You really did it this time.

Went right out the gate like you knew I wouldn’t stop you. Maybe I wouldn’t have. Maybe I was simply tired of pretending I didn’t care when you left.

You always came back before. And I always let it slide.

I don’t know why this time’s different. Maybe because it’s been three days. Maybe because the yard’s too quiet without you. Maybe because I finally said the thing out loud… “She’s not coming back.”

I keep looking up from the sink thinking I’ll see you by the lilacs again. You always liked the lilacs.

Anyway, if you’re still out there, I hope it’s nice. I hope someone’s taking care of you better than I ever did.

I’m leaving the gate open, just in case.

–H

Miles read it twice.

Then a third time, slower…like if he read carefully enough, additional words would appear on the page.

It didn’t sound like a joke. If anything, it sounded like regret.

A lost love? A breakup? A falling out?

Geraldine. The name stuck with him.

He flipped through the rest of the almanac, half-expecting to find another note tucked somewhere beside the lunar phases or the frost warnings. Nothing. Just pages full of crop rotations and moon signs and a surprisingly detailed article about pruning grapevines.

Harold had never struck him as the sentimental type. No wedding ring. No photo albums. No family to speak of. Just Harold and his iced tea. His flea markets and garage sales. His odd little world of mystery gadgets and teapots and old coins.

But now? Miles wasn’t so sure.

He found a photo later that day, in a cracked frame perched on an old tool cabinet at the back of the garage. It showed a man in his mid-thirties–Harold, judging by the smile–astride a sawhorse, grinning with his arm slung around someone just out of frame. The photo had been cut off at some point.

That was the hook. That cut off part. Whoever Harold had cropped away.

By the end of the week, he was combing through local archives, poking around phone directories, searching for a Geraldine who might’ve once lived nearby. He even messaged the local library, asking if anyone remembered a woman by that name from the late ’70s.

He knew it was silly, but for some reason, he couldn’t let it go. He owed it to him.

He posted in the local community Facebook group: “Does anyone remember a Geraldine from the area? 1970s or 80s? Possibly connected to a man named Harold?”

The replies came in slowly.

One woman offered up a cousin who’d eloped in ‘78.

Someone else suggested he talk to a woman named Colleen who worked at the feed store and “knew things.”

Most comments were just “following” with a heart emoji.

Then, a few nights later, his phone buzzed. Facebook Messenger. From someone named Tanya Murphy, RPN.

“Hey, saw your post in the community group. Sorry if this is random. I was one of Harold’s PSWs the last couple years.”

Miles sat up.

“He was a quiet guy, but sweet. Got grumpy when the TV remote went missing. Told terrible jokes. Had a soft spot for animals.”

Miles replied right away. He told her how Harold used to babysit Miles almost daily while his parents worked. How he’d been charged with sorting through the estate. Then he mentioned the letter. And Geraldine.

“He mentioned Geraldine often. Said she was the only one who ever understood him. That she didn’t need much—just a patch of grass, a bit of sun, and a gate left open. ‘That was enough for her,’ he used to say.”

Miles felt a pang of guilt. He’d moved away for college and only came back for Christmas. Harold was usually off ice fishing by then. He hadn’t seen him in years.

“Did he ever talk about why she left?” he typed.

“Once. Said he let her go, but hoped she’d come back. And she did, actually—about a week later, covered in burrs, muddy and foul-tempered, but healthy as an ox. He said it was the most romantic thing that ever happened to him.”

Miles smiled, but his eyes stung. He replied, “Was she local? Do you know her full name?”

“She wasn’t local. Not in the way you mean lol. I think it’s easier if I just show you. He gave me a photo once. Hang on.”

There was a pause. Then a little grey bubble. Then the photo appeared.

It was a print scan. Faded and sepia-washed. In it, a younger Harold sat on a rickety wooden bench, grinning like a fool. Beside him, standing on a crate with a daisy tucked behind one ear, was Geraldine.

A goat.

Miles stared at it for a full five seconds before it sank in. He blinked. Then again.

Geraldine was a goat.

He let out a breathy, stunned laugh. Then a much harder one.

“You’re telling me… Geraldine was a goat?” he typed.

Tanya reacted to the message with a heart. “Of course she was. What did you think she was?”

“I thought…” Miles stopped. Then just sent, “Never mind. That makes sense.”

She didn’t press. Just replied, “She was his someone. Doesn’t matter what kind.”

Miles looked again at the picture–at Harold’s grin, at Geraldine’s sideways stare, and at the daisy tucked behind her ear.

It didn’t matter what kind. Geraldine was his someone