Through a Cat’s Eyes By Black Cat

I. Rainy Nights

I sit at the window’s edge, watching lamplight cast the man’s shadow long and uneven across the wall. That same light lifts his round face from darkness — something pensive there, something still.

Outside, cold winds howl. Rain patters against the window, quickening with each gust. Leaves and branches thrash in the chaos. Lightning flashes, tearing through the dark. Compared to the strays outside, huddled in the cold without shelter, I know I am fortunate.

The faint scent of cigarette smoke lingers in this small room. I don’t care for it, but I’ve grown used to it. All I know is Dylan’s coughing echoes every night, a rough, stubborn rhythm…

II. Morning Hustle

Daytime is different — sprawling under the sun’s warmth feels like a gift. Dylan, though, is always rushing, caught in his own whirlwind.

Mornings hum with a symphony of sounds: the kettle hissing, the shower’s steady rush, steam curling in the air, mingling with Dylan’s low, warm singing.

He slips into yesterday’s pressed clothes, fills my bowl in the corner, then crouches down — a quick embrace, a kiss on my head — before slinging his black leather satchel over his shoulder and hurrying out. His footsteps clatter on the floor, fading as the door swings shut.

Silence settles, ticking in time with the black pendulum clock on the wall.

The room is mine now. And I like it that way.

III. The Simple Room

This room, on the third floor of a rustic house on the city’s outskirts, feels raw, unpolished. Whitewashed walls, creaky wooden floors. Nothing fancy — just a chestnut bed, a small table where Dylan eats and works, and a few modest touches.

Two small brocade sachets hang on the wall, faintly scented with sarsaparilla. Across the room, an old wardrobe stands, its paint chipped and peeling with time.

At the center, a domed stone fireplace, wide-mouthed and simply tiled, stretches its black chimney to the roof.

Near the doorway, a tiny kitchen holds a small stainless sink, a few glass cups, and plates neatly hung on a rack. Dylan rarely cooks — only during those few times when a woman visited, someone named Rose, I think, though I’m not certain.

That day, the air brimmed with the aroma of food, Dylan’s eyes sparkled, and his smiles were brighter than they are now.

IV. The Window’s World

By the bed, a wooden window framed in ivory holds a few perfectly fitted panes of glass. Warmth floods the room through it — cozy, comforting. A cream-colored feather rug lies flat on the sill, dotted with small pots of green grass.

Beyond the glass stands a tall maple, its lush canopy pressed against the panes. Mornings bring a chorus of birds, their songs endlessly captivating. But when the cold comes, the birds vanish, and crimson maple leaves scatter across the street below…

V. Small Treasures

One day, Dylan brought home a golden scratching post, its base wrapped in tight braids. I use it to sharpen my claws — nothing more.

Another time, he dragged in a blue cushion, scavenged from somewhere, with a tiny pillow embroidered with a black cat. He set it near his bed.

I wasn’t impressed. My place is on the bed, right beside Dylan. It’s warmer there.

Sometimes, I deliberately slink onto his desk while he works. His hand grazes my head, slow and steady.

I curl into his thin palm, purring softly, blending with his warm breath.

In those moments, my heart hums with a quiet peace — a wordless warmth.

VI. Shadows of Sadness

But there’s a faint sorrow in his eyes, tucked deep. Dylan says nothing, just tilts his head, eyelids heavy.

His trembling hands lift a cooling coffee cup, leaving a vast emptiness in their wake…

Tonight, he’s late. The door creaks open, a sliver of hallway light slipping in before fading. The heavy scent of rain clings to his soaked shirt.

Dylan sits, wordless, his smile faint, his eyes heavy with unspoken stories. I know — a hard day has settled on his shoulders.

After a shower, he settles at his desk, nibbling a stale bread crust from last week’s stash. I leap up, nuzzling his chin. His beard’s grown longer.

He calls me a nuisance, but his hand lingers, stroking me gently.

VII. The Glow of Night

Dylan gazes at the screen’s green glow, transfixed — his eyes piercing an unseen world, sharp one moment, drifting the next.

Sometimes, tears fall silently from the corners of his eyes.

The keyboard’s clatter pauses, then resumes, blending with the clock’s unhurried ticking.

It’s late. I curl by his feet. The fire crackles softly, its golden light warming the room with a gentle glow.

Snowflakes drift slowly outside the window.

I don’t know what humans dream of.

All I know is — his heart beats, steady… and sad.

Author’s Note:

“This story was first written in Vietnamese during a winter when words felt both heavy and necessary. Thiên, my black cat, was there through every late night — watching, waiting, understanding in the way only animals can.

Translating one’s own work is a strange act of distance and intimacy. Some phrases in Vietnamese carry rhythms that English cannot hold; some silences read differently across languages. I’ve tried to preserve not just the meaning, but the breathing of the original — the pauses, the weight of certain moments.

If you’d like to experience the Vietnamese original, you can find it here:

[ Penzu Link ]

In memory of quiet nights and soft purrs.”

— D.N.