The Nightcar

It is empty.

She places it on the floor.

The sound echoes far longer than it should.

She smiles, sadly.

“You’ve been trying very hard to forget.”

You tell her you haven’t.

She tilts her head.

“No. Not consciously.”

Another long silence.

“You remember the day she died.”

She kneels beside the empty bowl.

“But that isn’t where she lives.”

…

“Close your eyes.”

“You keep replaying the last page because you’re afraid reading the whole book will hurt more.”

She waits.

“But grief is peculiar.”

“It convinces you that if you remember the beautiful parts… you’ll have to lose her all over again.”

“So you cling to the ending.”

Another pause.

“I want you to go somewhere else.”

…

“You’re opening your front door.”

“You’ve just come home from work.”

“The keys are still in your hand.”

“You haven’t even called her name.”

“You never had to.”

A faint smile crosses her face.

“She’s already there.”

“Not because she heard the door.”

“Because she had been waiting.”

…

“You hear the little footsteps.”

“The tiny impatient meow.”

“The one that somehow said, ‘You’re late.’”

“You crouch.”

“And before your knees touch the floor…”

“There she is.”

Rubbing against your legs as though she has discovered you after a lifetime apart.

Not because she doubted you would return.

Because every return deserved celebrating.

…

“You remember how frightened she once was.”

“How humans had taught her that hands could hurt.”

“So she watched yours.”

“For days.”

“For weeks.”

“You earned every inch she walked toward you.”

“Until one day…”

Miss Audrey gently reaches out an invisible hand.

“…she leaned into your fingers.”

“The smallest movement.”

“The greatest gift.”

“Trust.”

“She chose you.”

Not because she had nowhere else to go.

Because she decided you were safe.

…

“Do you remember the headbutts?”

“They weren’t affection.”

“They were ownership.”

A tiny laugh.

“That was her saying…”

“‘You are my person.’”

“‘Don’t forget.’”

…

“The way she climbed onto your chest.”

“Not because it was comfortable.”

“It wasn’t.”

“Humans are lumpy.”

“She lay there because she could hear your heart.”

“And perhaps…”

“…she liked knowing it was still beating.”

Her voice becomes softer.

“You thought you were calming her.”

“But listen carefully.”

“Who was purring?”

“You.”

“Just without the sound.”

…

“You thought she followed you everywhere.”

“The kitchen.”

“The sofa.”

“The bathroom.”

“The impossible dignity of being watched while you peed.”

She smiles knowingly.

“You laughed.”

“But she wasn’t supervising.”

“She simply believed…”

“Where you were…”

“…was where home was.”

…

“And salmon.”

The faintest smile.

“Oh…”

“She knew.”

“You could unwrap salmon sashimi three rooms away.”

“She would appear with the confidence of someone answering a sacred calling.”

“As if the universe itself had whispered…”

“‘It’s salmon.’”

…

“When you cried…”

“She didn’t try to fix you.”

“Cats don’t believe sadness is a problem.”

“They believe sadness is a place.”

“So she entered it with you.”

“She sat beside you.”

“As if to say…”

“’If this is where you must be today…”

“…then I shall be here too.’”

…

“You called her your baby.”

“But have you considered…”

“…that to her…”

“You were hers?”

“The enormous clumsy creature who needed reminding to sleep.”

“Who forgot to drink water.”

“Who stared into nothing when life became too heavy.”

“The one she had appointed herself to watch over.”

She closes her eyes.

“You weren’t rescuing each other.”

“You were belonging to each other.”

…

“Look at her eyes.”

“Don’t picture the old ones.”

“Don’t picture the tired ones.”

“Find the eyes that greeted you every evening.”

“The ones that looked at you as though you had done something extraordinary…”

“…simply by existing.”

“You say people talk about soulmates as though they must be human.”

“I’ve never understood that.”

“Souls rarely concern themselves with species.”

…

The room grows impossibly still.

“You believe love ends where breathing ends.”

“It doesn’t.”

“Breathing belongs to bodies.”

“Love never did.”

…

“You carry guilt.”

“Because she was in pain.”

“Because you wished you could have carried it instead.”

She looks directly at you.

“You already did.”

“Every day since.”

…

“Now tell me…”

“If she walked through that door this very moment…”

“Old again.”

“Slow again.”

“Sore again.”

“Would you love her any less?”

Of course not.

“Then why do you imagine she would love you less for surviving her?”

…

She stands.

The empty bowl remains on the floor.

Only now…

…it doesn’t seem empty anymore.

“It is a strange thing,” she says quietly.

“We think we are haunted by those we lose.”

“But perhaps…”

“…we are simply still being followed.”

“By a small pair of invisible paws.”

“Still waiting at every door.”

“Still curling up beside us when the room grows quiet.”

“Still headbutting a heart that cannot see her…”

“…but has never once forgotten the shape of her love.”

…

The chamber falls silent again.

Yet somehow, beneath that silence…

…you could almost swear you hear a purr.