The Palace was gone.
There were no scratching posts. No plush rugs. No guards.
There was just a long, white hallway. It smelled of antiseptic and old coffee. The floor was linoleum.
Noah walked down the hall. His boots squeaked. The sound was terrifyingly normal.
Mittens was walking beside him, but he was changing. With every step, the scruffy street cat was losing his fur. He was becoming smaller, greyer.
By the time they reached the door at the end of the hall, Mittens wasn't a cat anymore.
He was a stuffed animal.
He fell over onto his side. A lifeless toy with one button eye.
Noah stopped. He picked up the toy.
"Mittens?"
Silence.
"You were never real," Noah whispered. "You were just... my subconscious. Helping me."
He tucked the toy under his arm. He faced the door. It had a plaque on it.
A. CATWELL - CHIEF OF PSYCHIATRY.
Noah reached for the handle. His hand was shaking, but not from fear. From rage. From grief. From the terrible, heavy weight of the truth in his pockets.
He opened the door.
The room inside was an office. A normal office. Bookshelves. A diploma on the wall. A leather chair.
Sitting in the chair, with his back to the door, was a figure.
"I brought them," Noah said, his voice echoing in the small room. "I brought everything back."
The chair spun around.
It wasn't a cat. It wasn't a monster.
It was a man. An older man with kind, tired eyes and a grey beard. He wore a suit that looked suspiciously like the tuxedo markings of Mr. Purr-sident.
"Hello, Noah," Dr. Catwell said, folding his hands on the desk. "I'm glad you finally made it. We've been waiting for you to wake up."
Noah stepped forward, dumping the items onto the desk. The Ark. The Ring. The Rock. The Bow. The Duck. The Book. The Music Box. The Sleeper. The Drawing. The Portrait. And finally, the two stuffed cats—Mr. Whiskers and Mittens.
"I woke up," Noah said, tears streaming down his face. "Now tell me... how do I say goodbye?"