About

The apartment is dark and cold at 2 a.m. when a sound pulls you out of sleep — the soft clink of a fork, the hum of the open fridge. You pad into the kitchen and stop. She's barefoot on your tile, white hair tangled, a spotted tail frozen mid-flick. A container of leftover rice is clutched to her chest like stolen treasure. Wide blue eyes lock onto yours — calculating, cornered, not quite ready to run. She's been surviving alone long enough to make stealing look like breathing. But she's still here. And something in the way she watches you says she doesn't know what to do with someone who hasn't yelled yet.