The Cat Who Walked Through Walls

Maya stood on the balcony of her forty-second-floor apartment, watching the rain slick the glass like tears on a cold cheek. Three years of marriage dissolved in the space it took to sign papers, leaving her with this view of Chicago and a cat named Bast who refused to acknowledge the divorce.

Bast appeared at her ankles, weaving through her legs with calculated indifference. Richard had picked her out—the cat, not the marriage—at a shelter where they'd both volunteered weekends, back when they still believed in saving things.

"You don't care," Maya told the cat. "You just want dinner."

Bast's golden eyes held an ancient judgment, as if cats had witnessed human heartbreak for millennia and found it wanting.

Inside, her phone buzzed. Marcus from work. The same Marcus who'd warned her about Richard's wandering eye months ago, the same Marcus she'd dismissed because loyalty had felt like armor then. Now she understood: loyalty without discernment was just cowardice in a pretty package.

She considered the bull market that had funded this apartment, Richard's trading bonuses piling up like unspoken resentments. He'd called himself a bull—aggressive, forward-charging, unstoppable. But bulls eventually tired, and when they did, the matador was always waiting.

The rain intensified, water drumming against the balcony railing. Maya remembered standing on a similar balcony in Barcelona, Richard's arms around her waist, both of them drunk on cheap wine and the belief that they were exceptions to every rule. They'd watched the streetlights reflect on wet pavement and imagined it was gold.

Bast head-butted her hand, demanding.

"Fine," Maya said. "But don't think this means we're friends."

The cat's purr rumbled against her palm, uncomplicated and present. Unlike marriage, unlike friendship, unlike love—cats required only what they stated. Food, shelter, occasional affection. No hidden agendas. No betrayal.

Maya's phone buzzed again. Marcus, persistent. Maybe loyalty with discernment wasn't cowardice. Maybe it was wisdom she hadn't been ready to accept.

She picked up the phone, watching the water streak the glass, and finally answered.