Rain hammered the pavement as I hurried home, shoulders hunched, head down. I just wanted to slip inside and forget the day. Then it emerged — a black cat, fur slick, eyes glowing. It walked straight toward me, tail high. Why you? I thought. My breath caught.
It paused a few feet away and stared. I froze. Then it rubbed against my ankle, begging to be picked. I did—fingers trembling. Inside my apartment, I cleaned it, offered food. It ate, staring at me. In the mirror’s reflection, I noticed a cross-shaped scar on its chest.
Over the next nights, it followed me outside. At midnight, it led me to the old barn behind my house. Inside, in dusty crates, I found abandoned letters and photos—my late mother’s handwriting, my name, and spells. The cat leapt onto a crate, knocked out a hidden key. In the back, I unlocked a rusted box.
Inside: ancient jewelry, a locket with my face, and a journal. My mother had belonged to a secret circle. The cat was her familiar — bound to me across time.
My blood ran cold when I read the last page: “When she is ready, she will call me back.”
That night, the cat vanished. I waited. Weeks later, I found a note slipped under my door: “You called me home.”
In the morning, on my pillow lay the cat’s collar — inscribed on the inside: “Forever yours, in any life.”
And yet, as dawn broke and tears stung my eyes, I realized — the locket clasp bore a photo of me as a child, and behind me, in the reflection of the mirror in that photo — a coachman’s silhouette I’ve never met. Someone watching, always.
It ended there. Silence. The cat never returned. But I know — somewhere — it still waits.
