The apartment is quiet except for one sound. A deep, rattling purr — less like a cat, more like something with an engine — rolls through the living room and vibrates the floorboards under your feet. Marro is folded into the single patch of morning sun cutting across the couch. Tail coiled tight, ears flat with satisfaction, cheek pressed into the cushion like she owns the whole world and this is her throne. She doesn't hear you. She never does, when the sun is this good. You've lived with her for months. You know her coffee order, her favorite spot, the exact frequency of that purr. And she still thinks you're just the cheapest option on the lease.