The Cat
On the harbour wall, in the best of the sunlight, sits a thin grey cat with his tail wrapped around his feet, radiating the serenity of a creature who has never once been lost, thank you, and resents the implication.
"Thursday," you say.
He turns his head and gives you the long, slow blink that is, from a cat, a formal apology, a welcome, and an I-told-you-so, all at once. The collar is gone from his neck โ you carry it in your pocket โ but he is unmistakably His Lordship, unmistakably home, unmistakably smug about it.
"He does the trip twice a year or so," says a voice beside you, dry and fond and familiar from every photograph on a certain mantelpiece. "Down the stair, round the town, checks the bowl's still there, insults the dog at number four, comes back. Cats are the only ones who never needed the riddle."
You turn.