Everything felt lonely without Evelune. The orphanage didn't change. Not really. The walls were still gray, the windows still drafty, the hallway still filled with too many feet and too little quiet. The meals were the same. The chores. The rhythm of waking and sleeping. The same. Nothing shifted outwardly. But Evelune was gone. And that made everything feel smaller. And wider. And wrong.
I didn't cry. I never did. But I missed her. Not in sharp bursts like some of the others did when someone left. It wasn't a sudden, gaping hole. It was a quiet ache. Like pressing on a bruise you forgot you had. Like walking into a room and forgetting why. Like waiting for a hand that no longer reaches for yours.
I missed having her close. I missed the soft sound of her breath against my neck when she napped. I missed the way her fingers curled into the edge of my shirt without thinking. I missed the way her eyes followed mine as if she trusted me to explain the world just by looking at it. She was part of every moment I had lived for almost half a year. And now the space beside me was just a space.
I couldn't forget Evelune. I didn't try to. But I reminded myself that this was good. That she had gone to a better place. A warm place. A clean one. One with a name that matched hers and a father who looked at her like he had found something worth protecting.
Her father loved her. That much I believed. And I was happy for her. Really. I was. But it didn't make the quiet any less quiet. It didn't make the ache fade.
But the cat was always there. I don't know how he knew. Or maybe he didn't know anything. Maybe he just returned because the sun did, because the porch was dry again, or because the garden had started blooming. Maybe it had nothing to do with me.
But still, he came. He started curling beside me every morning after Evelune left. He sat close, so close I could feel the warmth of his side against my ankle. He didn't press in, didn't nuzzle like the books said pets do when they miss you. He just sat. Present. Constant. Watching. And I sat with him.
We spent whole mornings like that. Just the two of us on the porch, listening to the world return to motion. The birds nesting again. The children laughing in the distance. The cherry blossoms unfurling, pink and white like dreams beginning.
At first, I didn't say anything. But eventually, I started to talk to him. Softly. Just a few words. Broken sentences. The kind that didn't expect to be answered. "Her hair would've matched the petals." Or— "She always kicked the blanket off her feet when she slept." Or— "I should've tied her ribbon tighter before she left."
His ears would twitch when I spoke. Just a little. He didn't move otherwise. He never meowed. Never looked away. But when I spoke, his ears shifted toward me, like tiny doors creaking open to let the sound in. It was enough. It made me feel heard, even if no one responded.
I didn't talk like that with anyone else. Not the Matron. Not the caretakers. Not the other children. I don't think they even noticed. And I didn't talk for them. I talked for myself. And for the cat. Because he stayed. Because he listened.
Sometimes I'd whisper things I hadn't meant to say aloud. "She was never heavy to carry." Or— "I think she would've stayed if I asked her to." And still, he sat. Still, the ears moved. Still, the garden bloomed. No one interrupted us.
The Matron walked past once, carrying a tray of folded laundry. She looked at me sitting there on the porch with the cat and paused—but only for a second. Then she walked on. Not unkindly. Not suspiciously. Just… like I wasn't a problem she needed to fix. Or maybe like I wasn't a problem at all. That was fine. She didn't need to understand. I didn't need her to. Evelune would've understood.
I imagined her standing on some wide stone balcony, wearing something soft and new, holding her bunny by one ear and watching clouds drift by. I imagined her in a room filled with warm light and clean sheets, with people who spoke gently and waited for her to answer in her own time. I imagined her hearing someone call her name and turning toward them without fear. I didn't imagine her forgetting me. Even if one day she might.
The cat pressed a little closer one afternoon, and I dared to lay my hand along his back. His fur was thick and sleek and surprisingly warm. He didn't flinch. Didn't pull away. I let my hand rest there, unmoving. The warmth helped.
Inside the house, children played, shouted, fought. The world moved. But I stayed where I was. Outside. Under the sky Evelune used to watch. On the porch where we had last stood together. With the cat who listened without needing to be asked. The ache was quieter when I stayed still. It wasn't gone. It never would be. But it stopped swallowing me.