The Last Living Thing in Apartment 4B

She moved through her apartment like a ghost haunting her own life, a zombie in everything but name. Three years of corporate audits and endless spreadsheets had drained something essential from her—some spark that used to flare when she laughed, or cried, or felt anything at all.

Barnaby waited by the window, her orange tabby, the only living thing that still looked at her with expectation. He meowed as she entered, stretching against the glass where his cat tree stood, a jungle gym in a concrete jungle.

"Sorry, buddy," she murmured, dropping her bag. "It was another long one."

The cable box blinked its single eye at her—12:03 AM. Another night lost to the company's bottom line, another evening sacrificed to Q3 projections. She'd meant to leave him six months ago. Really meant to leave him. But somehow the mortgage, and the familiarity, and the sheer exhaustion of starting over kept her anchored to a marriage that had died slowly, like a houseplant nobody remembers to water.

Her phone buzzed. Him again. *Working late. Don't wait up.*

The familiar lie landed softly in the quiet room. She didn't believe it anymore—didn't believe much of anything lately. But she also didn't have the energy to confront it. Confrontation required feeling something, and she was fresh out.

Barnaby wound through her legs, purring like a tiny motor. His warmth seeped through her skirt, anchoring her to this moment, this room, this small honest connection. She scooped him up, buried her face in his fur, and for the first time all day, something inside her chest cracked open.

"We're still here," she whispered to him. "That counts for something, doesn't it?"

The cable news droned softly in the background—some disaster somewhere, some crisis that would be forgotten by morning. She turned off the television and sat in the dark with her cat, feeling something stir in the hollow space behind her ribs. Not hope exactly. But something like it.

Tomorrow, she told herself. Tomorrow she'd make the call. Find the lawyer. Cut the cable.

But tonight, she just held onto the warm, living weight in her arms and practiced being alive again.