On my way home, I always took the same route.
Not because it was shorter, but because halfway down the narrow alley behind my building, there was a cat.
She didn't look like most strays.
Her fur was thick and well-kept despite the grime of the city, a soft gray patterned with darker stripes, the kind you'd expect to see brushed regularly rather than matted by neglect. She slept near the dumpsters as if it were a deliberate lifestyle choice rather than a lack of alternatives.
What always caught my attention, though, was the collar.
It was worn and faded, but unmistakably expensive. Leather. Real metal clasp. And a small, oval tag that caught the light whenever she moved.
M. I.
I crouched and pulled a vacuum-sealed packet from my jacket pocket, the kind you could buy at any 7-Eleven at two in the morning. Chicken breast in broth. Technically meant for humans. Conveniently acceptable for cats.
I tore it open and folded the packaging back carefully, letting the contents slide into a shallow bowl I kept in my backpack.
She waited until I stepped back before approaching. Always did. Dignity intact.
"Evening," I said.
She flicked an ear but didn't look up.
I leaned against the wall while she ate, listening to the soft sound of plastic crinkling and tongue against metal.
"Do you ever wonder," I asked, "what happens to the mice you catch?"
No reaction.
"I mean," I continued, lowering my voice as if this were confidential, "maybe one of them ends up somewhere else. Maybe the last mouse you ate woke up in another world with a sword in its hand and a very specific hatred for goblins."
She paused, glanced at me briefly, then returned to her meal.
"Right," I said. "That doesn't make sense."
Her tail flicked once. Sharp. Precise.
"Do you think they hate us for it," I asked quietly, "or are they grateful?"
That made her stop.
She lifted her head and looked at me properly this time, eyes half-lidded, assessing. Then she yawned wide and unapologetic before licking her paw with deliberate care.
I exhaled.
"Yeah," I said. "Why do I even care, huh."
She finished eating, sat for a moment as if evaluating whether I still served a purpose, then turned and disappeared back into the shadows without ceremony.
That was usually the end of my day.
"Mio!! There you are!"
The voice came from the far end of the alley.
I straightened.
She stood there holding a reusable grocery bag in one hand, coat unbuttoned, hair slightly messy, but nevertheless effortlessly pretty.
When her eyes landed on the cat, relief crossed her face so fast she didn't even try to hide it.
"Oh my god," she breathed and hurried forward, dropping to her knees without hesitation.
The cat froze, then allowed herself to be touched.
"There you are," the woman whispered, hands gentle but sure.
She looked up at me.
"You've been feeding her," she said. Not accusing. Surprised. And, after a beat, quietly thankful.
"Yes," I replied. "She's very persuasive."
She huffed a small laugh.
"I've been looking for her for months," she said, fingers still buried in Mio's fur. "She has a habit of running away."
She stopped herself, swallowed, then shook her head.
"Thank you," she said. "Really. Most people wouldn't have bothered."
"She reminded me of myself," I said, before thinking better of it.
She looked at me then. Actually looked.
There was a pause. Not awkward. Just present.
"I'm making dinner," she said after a moment, standing and brushing her hands on her coat. "Nothing fancy. But if you'd like to join me… I'd like that."
I should have said no.
Instead, I nodded.
Her apartment was small, clean, and carefully maintained. Fresh flowers on the windowsill. Everything in its place, not obsessively so, but with intention. The quiet evidence of someone who expected to come home and wanted it to feel welcoming when she did.
She moved through the space easily, putting groceries away, washing her hands, tying her hair back.
The smell of spices filled the kitchen soon after.
Japanese curry. Thick, dark, comforting. The kind that took time and patience and didn't pretend to be impressive.
We ate at the narrow kitchen table. Rice. Curry. Pickled vegetables on the side.
She talked about work, about Mio's habit of running away, about nothing in particular.
I listened.
Not the way I listened at work. Not for outcomes or consequences. Just listening.
"You're very quiet," she said eventually. "But not in an uncomfortable way."
"No one's ever said that before," I replied.
She smiled faintly. "Then they weren't paying attention."
When I left, Mio watched from the windowsill, tail wrapped neatly around her paws, as if the question of where she belonged had already been settled.
Outside, the night felt different. Less heavy. Less certain.
As I walked home, I found myself thinking again about the question I had asked the cat.
Whether the ones who disappeared hated us for it.
Or whether they were grateful.
Or whether they didn't remember what had happened at all.
For the first time in a long while, I wasn't sure which answer frightened me more.