Dont let the cats spirit linger or youll have to get out of the flat, my landlady bellowed, her voice echoing down the hallway.
The flat Id taken over was tiny but bright. The furniture was old, but solid. Mrs. Margaret Clarke, the owner, warned me right away: Im a strict sort of person. I like order, cleanliness, quiet. If anythings wrong, tell me straight away, dont keep it to yourself.
I nodded. All I wanted was a peaceful night, no shouting neighbours, no drunken rants. After a string of noisy houses on the outskirts of Manchester, this place felt like a little slice of heaven.
I moved in, and we settled in. Margaret wasnt nasty, just reserved quiet, with a hint of permanent disappointment in her eyes, as if the world had let her down. I tried not to get in her way. I cooked early in the morning while she was still asleep, moved around on tiptoe, hardly ever turned the telly on, and basically lived like a mouse.
Then Misty showed up. She wasnt exactly a stray, more like a homeless soul that had latched onto the building. A skinny grey cat with sharp green eyes, she perched by the entrance, meowing plaintively, as if saying, Please, take me in. I couldnt resist. I scooped her up, fed her, gave her water, and set her down on an old towel in a box. She curled up, started purring, and something inside me thawed for the first time in months. Good girl, I whispered, feeling a tiny spark of warmth.
Hiding her seemed simple. Margaret barely entered my room, and Misty turned out to be a quiet little thing no scratching, no sprinting around, just purring and napping on the sill.
One evening, however, Margarets voice cut through the flat like ice: Emily Watson! I jumped. I stepped into the hall and saw her at the door, face twisted, clutching a clump of grey fur. Whats this? Whos that in here? she shouted, as if Id brought a snake or a rat. Her face flushed, hands shaking. I cant stand that mess! The hair, the smell! I cant!
Shes clean, I tried to say.
Then get rid of the cats spirit, or get out of my flat! Margaret snapped, turned, and slammed the door.
I sank onto the sofa, my hands trembling. Misty padded over, brushed against my legs, and let out a soft meow. What are we going to do, love? I whispered, tears sliding down my cheeks. Where do we go from here?
I couldnt just leave. I was too worn out. So I decided to stay hidden until I was forced out, and to keep the cat out of sight. The next few days felt like a ridiculous spy game. I slipped Misty into the wardrobe whenever I heard Margarets footsteps, fed her early in the morning or late at night when she was out shopping. I tucked the litter box into the farcorner behind an old suitcase.
Misty seemed to get the secret. She didnt meow, just sat silently on the windowsill, watching the street with those sad green eyes, as if she were breathing extra softly so as not to give herself away. Youre a clever one, I murmured, stroking her warm grey back. Hang in there a bit longer, everything will sort itself out.
But nothing sorted. Margaret paced the flat with a look that said shed been betrayed, sniffing corners, stopping at my door and listening for any rustle. I froze, clutching Misty to my chest, my heart pounding like it might burst. Please, dont hear anything, I prayed.
She lingered a minute longer, then left, the air in the flat growing thick. At dinner, she ate her soup in silence, then suddenly snapped, You think Im a fool?
I choked on my tea. I get it. You didnt kick her out, you just hid her. You think I dont feel it?
Margaret, I whispered, stop. Dont lie to me. I warned you. But if youre so clever, fine. No fur, no noise! And when my grandson comes, make sure theres no cat spirit lingering!
She stormed off, leaving me tangled in confusion.
The next day she mentioned her grandson. Harrys coming for the holidays. Hes twelve, his parents are always busy, so he stays with me. He arrives on Friday.
Thats nice, I said, trying to sound upbeat. You miss him, dont you?
She grimaced. Missing? Hes like a stranger now, glued to his phone, barely talks to me. He pops in for a week and vanishes again. Every year. Her voice cracked with genuine hurt.
But youre his grandma! He loves you, I insisted.
She loves the internet more than me, she muttered. And make sure your cats gone. Got it?
I nodded, wondering how on earth Id hide a cat for a whole week.
Friday came fast. Harry turned up in the evening tall, lanky, headphones glued to his ears, a gloomy expression. He gave a curt hello, slipped into my room, and shut the door. Margaret fussed about dinner, coaxing him to eat. He slumped at the table, eyes fixed on his phone.
Harry, at least have a bite, she begged.
I dont want any, he huffed.
What about the meatballs I made just for you?
Dont want them!
I could hear all this through the thin wall of my room, my heart squeezing for Margaret. Poor thing, trying so hard, while her grandson ignored her. Meanwhile Misty perched on the windowsill, watching the darkness outside with those melancholy eyes.
Hang on, love. Just a little longer, I murmured to the cat.
The next day, something unexpected happened. I stepped out to the loo for a minute, leaving the bedroom door ajar theres no lock on it. Misty, perhaps bored or curious, squeezed through the crack and slipped into the hallway. When I came back, the cat was gone. Panic hit me. Misty! Misty! I shouted, bolting into the corridor.
There, in the middle of the living room, sat Harry, gently stroking Misty, who was purring like a small engine.
Oh, I breathed, surprised.
Harry glanced up, a rare smile breaking across his face. Whose cat is this?
Its mine, I stammered, feeling my cheeks flush. Sorry, it was an accident.
Can I pet her a bit more? he asked, his voice oddly childlike. Shes so sweet!
Sure, go ahead.
Part of me feared Margarets reaction, but the other part was relieved to see Harry actually looking happy. Then Margaret appeared from the kitchen, froze at the sight, and stared at us.
Harry, she said quietly, are you playing with the cat?
Yes, Gran! Look how she purrs! Can I feed her?
She hesitated, then gave a tiny nod. Alright.
From that moment everything shifted. Harry never left Mistys side feeding her, playing, even sketching her with a pencil. He abandoned his phone on the sofa, laughed, and talked about school, friends, and how hed love a cat of his own someday.
Margaret, for the first time, watched her grandson with a soft look in her eyes. One evening she came over to my room and whispered, Let her stay, Emily. Keep Misty here. Shes brought a bit of joy into this house. A single tear rolled down her cheek.
Three months later, Harry called every evening, not his parents, but his grandma, asking to see Misty over video chat. Margaret fumbled with the phone, cursing the technology, Bloody thing! Can you see her, Harry?
I see her, Gran! Hi, Misty! he chirped, and the cat, hearing his familiar voice, padded closer to the screen, meowing as if she recognized him.
Ill be back for the spring holidays, right? he asked.
Sure thing, love. Well be waiting with Misty.
Margaret even bought a feather wand for the cat at the local shop, thinking Harry would love it.
I stopped hiding in corners. I cooked with Margaret, shared tea, and talked about my late husband, how we met, and how hard life had been since he passed. You know, Margaret, if it werent for Misty, I dont think Id have made it through, I confessed.
She nodded, understanding. Animals sense when were down. They come in, no words needed.
We became almost friends two lonely women brought together by a modest grey cat.
When spring arrived, Harry returned with a huge rucksack full of gifts: cat food, a new collar with a tiny bell, and a soft cushion.
Gran, I bought all this myself! he declared proudly.
Good on you, love, Margaret replied, hugging him.
He spent the week playing with Misty, strolling around the garden, drawing, and before he left he asked, Gran, can I come back for the summer? Stay longer?
Of course you can! she said, hugging him tighter.
Margaret beamed, realizing happiness wasnt in strict silence or perfect order, but in the laughter of a boy and the gentle purr of a little grey cat. All thanks to that unassuming feline.
