The Book of Saturdays

My grandfather, Lolo Ben, was not a man of many words, but he had a way of making every Saturday feel like a secret. We would wake before the sun, slip out of the house while the rest of the world still slept, and walk the quiet streets of our small town of Marigold, California, to the old bakery on Elm Street. The baker, Mr. Kowalski, would always have a fresh batch of cinnamon rolls waiting, and Lolo would tell me stories about the old country, about the rice terraces and the carabao, his voice a low rumble that made the morning feel sacred.

When Lolo died in his sleep two weeks before my eighth birthday, I didn’t cry for three hours. I didn’t cry at all. I just sat on the edge of his bed, staring at his still face, and felt the world tilt. My mother tried to hold me, but I pushed her away. My grandmother, Lola Rosa, whispered that he was in a better place, but I knew better. He had promised to teach me how to whittle, and now that promise was buried with him.

The funeral was a blur of black clothes and incense. Afterward, as per tradition, we gathered at Lola Rosa’s house for a merienda, a celebration of Lolo’s life. The tables were laden with lumpia and pancit, and the adults laughed and toasted, but I felt nothing but a cold, hard knot in my chest. I slipped away to the guest room, a room I had never slept in before, and closed the door. The window looked out onto the backyard, where a lone acacia tree stood, its branches scratching the gray sky. I lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling, and eventually, exhaustion pulled me under.

In my dream, I was standing in Lolo’s workshop, the small shed at the back of the garden where he kept his tools and half-finished carvings. The air smelled of sawdust and old tobacco. A book lay open on the workbench, its pages yellowed and worn. It was not a book I remembered seeing before. The title, embossed in faded gold, read: ‘The Book of Saturdays.’ I opened it, and the pages were filled with Lolo’s handwriting, neat and precise, describing our Saturdays in detail: the walks, the donuts (I changed it to cinna-mon rolls, but the intention was the same), the stories. But the last entry was different. It was dated the day he died, and it said, ‘If you are reading this, I have kept my promise. Find the seventh page.’

I woke with a start, my heart thumping. The room was dim, the party still going on downstairs, muffled laughter drifting up. I slipped out of the bed and padded to the closet. I had never been in this room before, but somehow I knew the book would be there. It wasn’t in the closet, but on the nightstand, right where the dream had left it. I picked it up, and the title gleamed: ‘The Book of Saturdays.’

I turned the pages, finding the same entries, but now they were real. My hands trembled as I reached the final page. It was blank except for a single line in Lolo’s hand: ‘Go to the acacia tree at midnight. Bring the book.’

I waited until the house fell silent. The party ended, and the guests left, and Lola Rosa went to bed. At midnight, I crept out to the acacia tree, the book clutched to my chest. The moon cast long shadows, and the wind whispered through the leaves. I stood there for what felt like hours, unsure of what to do. Then I heard a voice, soft and familiar, coming from the tree. ‘You came.’ I looked up, and there, sitting on a low branch, was Lolo. He looked the same, but translucent, like a memory made of moonlight.

He told me that he had made a deal with something old, something that lived in the spaces between Saturdays. In exchange for teaching me one last thing, he had promised to give up his rest. He showed me how to whittle, his ghostly hands guiding mine, and slowly, a small bird emerged from the wood. But as we worked, the air grew cold, and the shadows around us began to move. A deep, guttural laugh echoed from the darkness. The deal had a price, and I was the one who had to pay it.

The thing came for me, a shape of black smoke and hungry mouths. Lolo stood between us, his ghostly form flickering. ‘Run,’ he said, ‘and do not look back.’ I ran, clutching the bird, and burst into the house, slamming the door. But the thing did not follow. I looked out the window, and the acacia tree was empty. The book was gone.

The next morning, I found a small package on the nightstand. Inside was a wooden bird, exactly like the one I had carved, and a note: ‘I will always be with you, but remember: some promises are not meant to be kept. Guard the Saturdays.’ I never saw Lolo again, but every Saturday at dawn, I hear a faint tapping on my window, and when I open it, there is a single white feather on the sill. I keep them all in a box under my bed, and I never speak of what happened. But sometimes, late at night, I hear that guttural laugh from the acacia tree, waiting for me to forget my promise.