The hallway pulsed with life—rubber soles scuffing tile, lockers clanging open, backpacks slung with lazy half-effort. Laughter drifted through the corridors, uncontainable, like the spring wind that clung to coats and hair from the walk to school. The bell hadn't rung yet, but the classroom was already filling up with the messy rhythm of teenage mornings—half-said jokes, yawns, rustling notebooks.
Moore was already seated.
Same desk. Same window. Elbows on the table, chin in hand.
He barely blinked as students trickled past him. His eyes, dulled but not unfocused, were trained on the outside world—on the old stone wall that ran along the school's edge. Moss clung to its surface like memory. It was nothing special. It had always been there.
But the cat hadn't.
Black, sleek, still. Perched like a shadow waiting to be acknowledged.
For a moment, he wasn't sure if he was imagining it. Morning light smeared faintly across the glass, and the cherry tree outside shivered in the breeze. But the cat didn't move. It just… looked. Not at the school. At him.
A group of girls passed behind his desk, one whispering loud enough to be overheard. Something about a concert. He didn't catch the name. Another classmate swung into the seat beside him and bumped his desk, mumbling a half-hearted "sorry."
He didn't respond. Just flicked his eyes downward—once—and then back out the window.
The cat was still there.
He exhaled softly through his nose. Coincidence, he told himself. Just a stray with good balance. He pulled his hoodie sleeve over his hand and let his head tilt into the crook of his arm. The fluorescent lights above buzzed faintly, clashing with the birdsong outside. The moment felt thin—like it could break if he thought too hard.
He didn't.
He just sat in it.
And outside, the cat stayed.
---
The cat followed.
Not in the way people follow. Not in steps or motion. But in presence.
When the final bell rang and chairs scraped back, Moore didn't move right away. Ronell waited at the door again—her usual quiet glance. He stood, finally, slinging his bag over his shoulder with the same half-effort he greeted every day. No words exchanged. There didn't need to be. She walked beside him like always, the rhythm of their steps almost rehearsed.
The sun had softened by then, casting gold against the edge of buildings and long shadows on the ground. Spring clung to the air, warm and a little wild. The stone wall was still visible from the school gate, and—
It was there again.
Perched in the same place. The black cat. Eyes glinting like marbles left out in the sun.
Moore's breath hitched, just slightly. His gaze lingered longer this time. Ronell didn't seem to notice. Or maybe she did, and chose not to ask.
They walked.
Past the bakery where the window fogged with fresh steam. Past the bookshop where Ronell once spent too long picking a story she never let him read. Moore shoved his hands in his pockets, head down, gaze only occasionally flicking sideways. He didn't say it out loud, but the presence trailed behind them.
He didn't need to look to feel it.
Not close. But not far, either. Just there.
He saw it again outside the café. Sitting under the iron bench where they usually paused for tea or silence. Its tail curled neatly around its paws. Watching.
Ronell ordered something warm, something soft. Moore didn't remember what. He barely heard the hum of the espresso machine, the clink of ceramic, the buzz of background life. His eyes drifted outside. The bench was empty now.
But he knew it had been there.
Later, they walked again. Up past the slope that led to the old rooftop above the gym—a place no one else cared to go. The lock on the gate had long rusted open. Moore liked it there. Ronell too, though neither of them had ever said so out loud.
Wind tousled their hair. The view stretched far, the horizon melting into pastels.
He stepped toward the ledge and froze.
There. Sitting by the railing.
Black. Small. Unmoving.
The cat didn't look up this time.
It didn't need to.
Moore watched it, mouth parting like he meant to speak, but found no sound waiting. His heartbeat, slow but heavy. Something about its presence stirred an ache. Not fear. Not even curiosity. Just… something.
It made him feel not entirely alone.
He didn't say anything to Ronell—not when she sat nearby, legs pulled up, arms wrapped around her knees. He didn't point, didn't ask. But the questions curled up inside him like smoke in his chest.
-
"Why do I notice it?Is it the same cat?Why does it make me feel... not alone?"
-
Night bled slowly into the sky. The stars came late.
When they left, the cat was gone again.
But the feeling stayed.
---
That evening, Moore didn't say anything to Ronell. No goodnight. No see you tomorrow. He simply waited until the house was quiet—lights dimmed, her bedroom door softly latched.
Then he walked.
Not like someone with a plan. More like a leaf being carried by the breeze, tugged forward by a feeling he didn't know how to name. His steps were slow. The streets felt hollow and still, touched with spring's warmth and the hush of night.
The tree stood just where it always did.Of course it did.
Branches arched wide over the hill, a silent guardian draped in pale blossoms. The wind made them shiver down in soft flurries, petals spinning through the dark like delicate ghosts.
And there—beneath it—was the cat.
Curled at the base. Waiting.
Its body was relaxed, tail flicking once, slow and thoughtful. Eyes like glinting moonstones opened when he approached, but it didn't move. It didn't need to.
Moore stared at it for a moment, one hand loosely at his side, the other curling into a fist. Then he let it go. Sat down.
He didn't speak right away. He didn't really know how to.
But then, as the wind brushed his bangs from his eyes, he exhaled softly.
"…You again?"
The cat didn't blink. Didn't respond. But it didn't leave.
A pause stretched between them—thick with quiet, rich with meaning. Moore's fingers grazed the grass. Cold and damp and real.
He laid back slowly. His body sank into the earth like it belonged there.
Above him, the branches danced gently in the dark. A single petal fluttered down, landing on his chest with barely a whisper.
And for the first time in a while—he closed his eyes not from exhaustion…but peace.
---
"There are presences that don't speak.
That only listen.
That only stay."