SOFT PAWS

The cat purred as it curled into her lap, its fur warm against her stillness. She sat in the old armchair by the window, gazing through drawn curtains at the sky.

The cat stretched lazily, claws catching the blanket’s frayed edge. She’d meant to fix that. It jumped down, padded to its bowl. Kibble waited, untouched. Still fresh.

It sniffed. Ate. Returned.

Nuzzled her hand.

She didn’t move.

But she never moved much. The cat didn’t mind. She was constant, familiar. Her scent, her shape in the chair, the hush of the room—it was all it needed. Outside, the world shifted, unbothered.

Inside, time folded.

It remembered her laugh, low and bright, when it chased dust motes in the sun. The rustle of book pages as she read aloud, the vibration of her voice like a distant purr. Her hand, always steady, always gentle. She was its world.

So when the cat curled beside her again, it didn't notice the cold creeping into her skin. Or the stillness that wasn’t just calm, but absolute. Her breath didn’t stir its fur. Her fingers never flexed.

The cat slept.

Days passed. Maybe weeks.

The cat ate. Groomed. Waited. Always by her side. The chair cradled them both. Her presence, though unmoving, felt enough. Her outline held warmth longer than it should have.

Sometimes, the cat meowed—not out of hunger, but out of habit. It pawed her knee lightly, then returned to its post.

Then the air began to change.

A sourness settled—slow, invisible. The windows fogged, the light dimmed. Still, the cat stayed. She was there, and that was all that mattered.

Until one night.

The blanket slipped lower than usual.

The moon, high and merciless, cast silver over her face.

Hollow cheeks. Sunken eyes. Skin mottled like old fruit.

The cat blinked.

Something shifted behind it—a footstep?

It turned.

A man stood in the doorway, tall and stiff in a suit. Hands gloved. Face unreadable. Behind him, two others. Quiet. Waiting.

“I told you she’d be with the cat,” one muttered.

They stepped in.

The cat hissed. Arched. It never saw strangers in this space—never needed to.

The gloved man reached out. “Easy,” he said, gently lifting it from the chair.

As he held it, the cat saw her from above. Her body—small, still, collapsed inward like a deflated balloon. The blanket was soaked through beneath her. Dried red stained the cushion.

The room reeked now. Not just of decay.

Of violence.

“She wasn’t just old,” the man said quietly. “Check the back of the head. This was no natural death.”

The cat meowed once—sharp and quick, more alert than it had been in days.

“She fought,” one of them added. “Poor thing.”

They carried her body out.

But not the cat.

It ran.

Back to the chair.

To the blood.

To the memory.

It curled up once more, as it had every day since the night she screamed—and never made another sound.