Murray was not a quiet cat.
This was not a flaw.
This was a function.
Each morning, he made his rounds.
The front door.
The back door.
And the tall window in the sitting room—the one that held the Outside just beyond reach.
He paused at each one, took in the air (or what little of it he was permitted), and delivered his findings.
“The Outside,” he would begin,
“is continuing.”
This was important.
No one else seemed to understand the urgency of it.
Leaves had moved.
Something small had passed through the yard at dawn—unverified, but suspicious.
The wind had changed directions twice.
- It's a quiet way to notice your life again.
- Things don't arrive all at once.
- Some pages take time.