Make sure theres no cat spirit lingering, or get the flat cleared out, the landlady shouted, her voice echoing down the narrow hallway.
The flat Emma had rented was tiny but flooded with light. The furniture was battered, yet it held together like an old oak chest. Mrs. Margaret Clarke, the owner, warned her straightaway:
Im a strict sort of person. I love order, cleanliness, and quiet. If somethings wrong, tell me at oncedont keep it to yourself.
Emma nodded. All she wanted was a nights peace, free from neighbourly brawls and drunken shouts. After a string of rentals on the outskirts where neighbours never stopped pounding on the walls, this place seemed a sanctuary.
She settled in. The two of them got acquainted. Mrs. Clarke wasnt cruel, just closed off, a silent figure with a perpetual, almost timeless look of grief in her eyesa lingering resentment against the world, perhaps.
Emma tried not to intrude. She cooked at dawn while the landlady still slept, moved like a mouse, turned the television off most of the time, and lived in the shadows of the room.
Then Misty appeared.
The cat didnt wander in; she seemed to stick herself to the building. Grey, thin, with clever green eyes, she perched at the stairwell, mewling plaintively as if saying, Please, take me in. Emmas resolve cracked.
She brought the feline upstairs, fed her, gave her water, and draped an old towel in a cardboard box. Misty curled into a ball, purred, and something inside Emma thawed for the first time in months.
Mist, my dear.
Hiding the cat felt easy. Mrs. Clarke rarely entered Emmas room. Misty proved to be a quiet companionno scratching, no darting about, just a soft purr on the windowsill.
One evening, a voice cut through the dreamlike hush:
Emma Clarke!
The landladys tone was as cold as ice, making Emma shiver. She stepped into the corridor where Mrs. Clarke stood by the door, face twisted, clutching a tuft of grey fur.
What is that? Whos that in your flat?!
Mrs. Clarke, I
A cat?!
The landlady screamed as if a snake had slithered across the floor. Her cheeks flushed, hands trembled.
I cant stand them! Dirt! Fur everywhere! Stench!
But shes clean.
Make sure theres no cat spirit, or clear the flat!
Mrs. Clarke turned and slammed the door shut. Emma sank onto the sofa, hands shaking. Mist padded over, brushed against her legs, and let out a soft meow.
What shall we do now, my dear? Emma whispered, tears spilling over her cheeks. Where do we go?
The thought of starting over, of packing and leaving, swirled in her mind, but she felt too drained to move.
So she decided: as long as they didnt force her out, she would stayand hide the cat even better.
The following days turned into a covert operation, absurd and exhausting, yet there was no other way. Emma tucked Mist into the wardrobe whenever Mrs. Clarkes steps echoed down the hall. She fed the cat only at dawn or late evening when the landlady disappeared to the corner shop. The litter box was concealed in the farthest corner, behind an old suitcase.
Misty seemed to understand. She never meowed, just sat silently on the windowsill, watching the world with mournful green eyes, as if breathing more cautiously to avoid detection.
Youre clever, Emma murmured, stroking Mists warm grey back. Just hold on a little longer. Everything will work out.
But nothing resolved. Mrs. Clarke prowled the flat with a face that suggested betrayal, sniffing corners, pausing at Emmas door, listening intently. Emma froze, clutching Mist close, heart thudding as though it might burst.
Lord, please dont let her hear, she thought.
The landlady lingered at the kitchen table, eating soup without lifting her eyes. Then, abruptly, she snapped, Do you think Im foolish?
Emma choked on her tea.
I understand perfectly. You didnt drive her out. You hid her. You think I dont feel it?
Mrs. Clarke
Enough! the landlady rose sharply. Dont lie to me. I warned you. But if youre so clever, fineno hair, no sound! And when my grandson arrives, make sure theres no cat spirit!
She stormed back to her own room, leaving Emma bewildered.
Grandson?
The next day Mrs. Clarke spoke dryly about him, but Emma caught a tremor of excitement in her voice.
My grandson Oliver is coming for the holidays. Hes twelve, his parents are always busy, so they send him to stay with me. Hell be here on Friday.
Thats wonderful! Emma tried to sound supportive. Youve missed him, I suppose?
Mrs. Clarke winced.
Hes become a stranger. Stuck to his phone, barely talks to me. Hell show up, sit for a week, then leave. Every year.
A genuine ache cut through her words.
But youre his grandmother! He loves you, Emma protested.
Loves? He probably doesnt even notice me. As long as the internet works, thats all he cares about, the landlady muttered, then softer, And make sure your cats spirit is gone. Understand?
Emma nodded, wondering where to hide Mist for an entire week.
Friday arrived too quickly.
Oliver appeared in the evening, a lanky teenager with headphones glued to his ears and a gloomy expression. He muttered a greeting, slipped into his room, and shut the door. Mrs. Clarke fussed about dinner, but Oliver slumped at the table, eyes glued to his screen.
Oliver, at least have a bite, the grandmother urged.
I dont want to.
I made your favourite cutlets.
I said I dont want them!
Emma, hidden behind the thin wall, felt her heart tighten. Poor Mrs. Clarke, trying so hard while her grandson ignored her. Meanwhile Mist perched on the windowsill, gazing into the dark outside, as melancholy as ever.
Hold on, dear. Just a little longer, Emma whispered to herself.
The next morning, an unexpected event unfolded. Emma stepped into the bathroom for a minute, left the bedroom door ajarthere was no lock. Perhaps Mist, curious or restless, slipped through the crack and slipped into the corridor.
When Emma returned, the cat was gone. Panic surged, cold sweat ran down her spine.
Mist! Misty! she shouted, racing into the hallway, only to freeze.
In the living room, on the floor, sat Oliver, and beside him, Mist, purring so loudly it sounded like a tractor starting up.
Oh, Emma exhaled, startled.
Oliver looked up, a smile breaking across his face for the first time since his arrival.
Whose cat is this? he asked, voice tinged with childlike wonder.
Its mine, Emma stammered, hopping from one foot to the other. Im sorry, Oliver, she just wandered.
Can I pet her a bit more? he asked, his tone soft and innocent. Shes so cuddly!
Of course.
Emma stood bewildered. On one side, Mrs. Clarke would burst in, and a scandal would erupt; on the other, Olivers happy eyes were fixed on the cat.
Just then the landlady emerged from the kitchen, saw the scene, and froze. Emma braced for an explosion.
Oliver, Mrs. Clarke said quietly, are you playing with the cat?
Yes, Grandma! Look how she purrs! Can I feed her?
The landlady stayed silent for a heartbeat, then slowly nodded. Alright.
From that moment everything shifted. Oliver never left Mists sidefeeding her, playing, even sketching her portrait with a pencil. He tossed his phone onto the sofa, laughed, talked about school, friends, and his secret wish to have a cat of his own.
Mrs. Clarke lingered at the kitchen table, listening, and for the first time a warmth flickered in her eyes.
One evening she approached Emma.
Let her stay, she whispered. Your Mist. Let her stay. With her, this house finally feels a little brighter.
A tear slipped down the landladys cheek.
Three months passed. Oliver called every evening, not his parents, but his grandmother, asking to see Mist on video chat. Mrs. Clarke fumbled with the old handset, cursing the gadget, Bloody thing! Oliver, can you see her?
I see you, Grandma! Hi, Mist!
The cat, hearing a familiar voice from the speaker, padded closer, meowing as if recognizing an old friend.
Grandma, Ill be back for the spring break, right?
Sure thing, love. Mist and I will be waiting.
And they were. Mrs. Clarke had even bought a feather wand from the corner shop, thinking Oliver would love it.
Emma no longer hid in shadows. She cooked alongside Mrs. Clarke, sipped tea, and shared stories of her late husbandhow they met, the hardships after his death.
You know, Mrs. Clarke, if it werent for Mist, I dont know how Id have gotten through this.
The landlady nodded, understanding. Animals sense us. When were down, they come, no words needed.
They grew into nearfriends, two solitary women bound by fate and a modest grey cat.
When spring arrived, Oliver returned, backpack brimming with gifts: food for Mist, a new collar with a tiny bell, a plush bed.
Grandma, I bought everything myself! he declared proudly.
Well done, love.
He spent the week with Mist, roaming the garden, drawing, and before he left, asked, Can I stay here for the summer? Longer?
Of course! Mrs. Clarke embraced him, realizing that happiness wasnt in silence or order, but in the rustle of feet down the hallway, in a childs laughter, in the soft purr of a cat.
All of it, thanks to an unremarkable grey feline.
