"Some places have no voice… but their scent always lingers."
The new place was dark. Drier than our old nest, quieter too... but its scent was different. The silence struck not our ears, but our noses. Here, sound didn't echo, but the smells bounced off the walls. Suspended in the air like invisible fog, thick and heavy, they whispered that everything had happened before—but nothing was truly over. The scents were buried deep in the stone. Trapped in the pipes, layered in the dust. With every breath, my nose filled with weight, and every exhale unlocked a new story.
The scent of rust came first. Damp, worn-out iron… like a silent scream. Then the heavy trace of moisture. It felt like a memory that hadn't been washed in years. Somewhere in the corner, the sour trace of spoiled milk drifted from an old rag—no longer milk, but a mixture of rot and forgotten belonging. There were markings from other cats, but time had faded them. The scent of urine had nearly disappeared, but its stubborn ghost still clung to the cracks between the stones. The message was clear:
"This place used to be full."
Now, it was empty. Silent. And we… moved in.
Mother walked up to the rag. Lowered her head. She sniffed. But didn't lick. She didn't clean it, didn't leave her own scent behind. She didn't mark it as ours. She simply stood still. As if paying respect to what once was. Then, without a sound, she began carrying us inside, one by one. In that moment, I understood: this place was now ours.
The new home didn't speak to our eyes—it whispered to our noses. Our vision was still blurry, still learning light. But scents never lied. Every stone had a language. Every shadow held a trail. I no longer followed my mother with my eyes, but with my nose. I wasn't sensing warmth... I was tracing the past.
In the upper corner of the boiler hung a spiderweb. At first, I didn't notice. It was just a flickering thread in dim light. But then movement began. In the center of the web, a fly was caught. Flapping, twisting, trying to pull free. But each flutter only bound it tighter. Every movement drew it deeper into the invisible snare.
Just like us.
Maybe our own struggling had tired Mother. Maybe we forced her to abandon our old nest. Maybe that's why the quietest one survived the longest. Maybe silence... was a strength we never understood.
The spider came. Silent. It made no noise. It didn't even seem alive—more like a shadow peeled from the wall. Its legs crept gently along the web. The fly froze. Maybe it sensed the end. But there was nowhere to go. The spider pounced. Its fragile body pressed onto the fly's back. The flapping slowed. The twitching faded. And then… stillness. The fly may not have died. But it gave up on living. Surrendered not just its body… but its will.
One of my siblings hissed softly, watching. Another reached out a paw, but couldn't touch. Mother never even turned her head. Because this was normal. This was the street. In the dark, life was built on silent deaths. And if a spider was weaving its web… it wasn't by accident. This was its home now, too. Like ours.
At night, cockroaches marched across the walls. Like lines. Like patrols. Always the same path, the same rhythm. As if they knew their route by heart. As if time had etched it into stone. One descended near the pipe that split the floor like a crack in the earth. Its scent reached me first—sharp, unfamiliar, but stirring something deep.
One of my siblings lunged. Tiny paws flying forward. Missed. The roach vanished like a shadow. Another tried. Missed again.
We didn't know how to hunt. But we knew how to wait. How to observe. How to smell. It was all inside us, born before us. Leaping at the right moment… was just a matter of time. Mother didn't teach this. We didn't teach each other.
But we knew.
Because we… were born for the street.
Our games were like this too—silent battles. No shouting, no real striking. One would sneak up and bite my tail; I'd flinch, then spin around. Another would press their paw down on my back, pinning me to the cold ground. Sometimes, all four of us would tumble into a heap, wrestling and hissing. But there was always a line we didn't cross.
Our claws hadn't fully emerged yet. Even when our instincts screamed "attack," our bodies were still clumsy, unfinished. We mimicked scratching, then instantly let go. But those games… they were rehearsals. First falls, first collisions, first losses, first resistance. Through them, it became clear who was faster, who was stronger, who could hold out longer.
And me… I usually lost.
One would climb onto my back, flattening me until I could barely breathe. Another would smack my face with a paw if I reached for a nipple. Whether we were playing, feeding, or simply moving—I was always a step too late. A bit slower. A bit weaker. My reactions were dulled, my feet unsure. I was always trailing behind.
But my mother never scolded me.
She still groomed me. Even if I was the last in line—always the one left behind—she would clean my fur, nuzzle my face, breathe me in. And for that reason, some nights, it felt safer not to be the victorious sibling… but the defeated one. Because sometimes love didn't choose the strongest—it clung to the one who needed it most.
"Everything in the street is a rehearsal. The real fight hasn't begun yet."
Then came that morning. Quiet. Ordinary. But different.
My mother vanished. Slipped between the pipes and didn't return. There was no farewell—perhaps not even time for one. My siblings immediately moved. They followed her scent. The one who always led didn't hesitate, taking charge without pause. Another's ears perked up, and they followed without question.
I… hesitated.
From the damp crack in the wall of our den, a strange wind flowed through and brought scents I had never known. Rust. Burnt oil. Rotting garbage. Dampness. And something else—threat. I didn't know what it was, but the moment I smelled it, it settled deep inside me, cold and still.
A voice inside told me to turn back. To retreat to the safety of shadow. But something else—nameless, maybe something I was born with—called me forward. Was it curiosity? Bravery? Or just the fear of being left alone? I couldn't tell. But I realized I wasn't stepping back. I was moving forward.
I pushed my body through the opening. Lowered my head. And crossed the threshold—out of the den, into the unknown.
The ground changed immediately. No longer soft or familiar. It was rough. Uneven. Wet. My paws twitched with every step, uncertain. But the real impact… came from the light.
The moment I looked up, it struck my eyes like a blade. As if the sky had suddenly exploded. There was no warning—just a sudden shift. Until then, everything I had known was born of darkness. Darkness was familiar. It was safe. But this... this was something entirely different. The light pierced through the shadows and slipped inside me. My eyes recoiled, my lids clenched shut. My body flinched. Everything turned blinding white. No shapes, no shadows—just a burst of whiteness.
And yet, at that same moment, a strange warmth spread through me. That sudden flash didn't just blind me—it reached into my body and held it still. My shoulders loosened. The tremble in my back faded. Between my fur, a soft, gentle warmth settled—one I had never known before. It wasn't the warmth of my mother's tongue or the comfort of curling against a sibling. This came from outside… but it also filled something deep within.
What was this thing? It burned my eyes… but soothed my body. I wanted to flee… but I also wanted to stay. I was shivering… but within that shiver, there was peace. For the first time, something was hurting me and healing me at once.
Something shifted inside my head. My thoughts tangled. In the streets, danger always came from outside. Through claws, teeth, the blow of a paw. But this… this was something else. It came from above. It was visible. It glowed. It warmed. And at the same time… it overwhelmed my eyes. My body froze. A trembling breath passed through my nose. My fur gently rippled in the breeze. I opened my eyes again. At first, everything was white. My pupils had yet to adjust. Then… blurred shapes began to emerge. Shadows stretched. Colors shimmered. The world came into focus. And in that instant, I realized:
Seeing could be too much. Seeing didn't just bring beauty—it brought the things you could no longer ignore.
But the world wasn't only made of light. There was sound.
The screech of wheels… the clatter of metal cans… the sharp bark of a dog. Then another sound. A human shout. Everything erupted at once. As if the world had suddenly decided to speak. And it was screaming. And we understood none of the words.
At that exact moment, a shadow passed above us. Broad. Silent. The sky darkened for an instant. One of my siblings let out a shriek, another dropped to the ground. But I… I couldn't move. The shadow passed, but its imprint remained. We didn't know what it was. But we had felt its size and silence. And in that moment, we learned: danger didn't only come from the ground… it could descend from the sky, too.
My mother returned without a sound. She pushed each of us behind a barrel. Then placed her own body in front of ours. Shielding us. Her ears were upright, her eyes narrowed, her fur bristling. She didn't move, but she heard everything. I watched her. Truly watched her, maybe for the first time.
I lifted my head. My eyes met the light again. But this time, I didn't flinch. My eyes burned, but I didn't pull back. And in that moment I understood: in the dark, everything hides. But here, under this light… everything is exposed.
Threats. Hunger. Death. They were now too visible to escape. And I asked myself:
"Is seeing really beautiful? Or is noticing everything… even more exhausting?
Is this light a gift… or the curse of awareness?"
That morning, our mother didn't leave us behind. The sky was dry, but the cold still lingered in the concrete. We stood at the edge of the new shelter, walking in the shadow of our mother. We were still nursing, still not fully grown. But we were on our feet. And that alone was the first proof of being alive—trembling, unsure, but real.
At the corner of the street, a few people sat on an iron bench. They wore thick coats, crumpled plastic bags at their feet. In their hands, food still steaming—flatbreads wrapped in paper, pastries bundled in old newspapers. One of them spoke loudly; his voice slapped against the air. Another burst into laughter—sharp, hollow, and careless.
When the wind shifted, the smell of food reached us. Brief gusts, cutting and invasive. Hunger sharpened inside us. Our instincts stirred. Our mother stepped forward. First, she lowered her head. Then, carefully, she approached. She didn't purr. She didn't meow. She simply tried to make her presence felt. A little hope, perhaps just habit.
But at that moment, a voice rose:
"Shoo! Get outta here!"
The toe of a shoe lifted into the air. A kick swept under the bench, and our mother jumped back. One person grimaced, another laughed out loud. As if feeding the stomach wasn't enough—mockery was part of the pleasure. As if our very presence spoiled their appetite.
Our mother didn't bow her head as she turned away. She didn't hurry either. She walked slowly. There was no shame, no anger in her eyes. It was as if she had memorized this reaction, worn thin by repetition. And still... she had tried. Because hunger bit in the same way every day, but hope always knocked from a different door.
We watched from a distance. Frozen in silence. One of my siblings buried his head to the ground. Another whispered, "Why did Mom do that?"
I... kept watching. Because in that moment, my mother didn't look small—she looked diminished. Not by herself, but by how she was treated.
And then...
Someone else appeared at the far end of the sidewalk. In her hand, a blue leash. At the other end of it—shining bright—a dog. Its fur was brushed, snowy white. A jeweled collar sparkled at its neck. Tiny boots covered its paws, and a buttoned coat was wrapped around its back. A creature not only protected, but chosen, adored.
The woman bent down and kissed him. She straightened his fur and picked him up. Her voice was soft, her scent clean—like soap. She smiled as she spoke:
"My handsome boy… no one will hurt you today, okay?"
My siblings' eyes widened. Even our mother looked—but not for long. She turned her gaze away and kept walking. But we... we kept watching. We didn't just see it—we absorbed it.
That dog... was spotless.
We... were covered in dust.
He had been loved. We had been rejected.
He had been lifted into arms. We were within kicking distance.
I looked at my own fur. Wet, uneven, thinning in places. I wanted to pull myself inward. I didn't yet know what shame was… but I wanted to disappear.
One of my siblings asked:
"Are we bad?"
No one answered.
Because we weren't bad.
But we were unwanted.
And in this city… sometimes, that's the only difference that matters.