Make sure theres no cat spirit lingering, or youll have to get out of the flat! shouted the landlady.
The flat Poppy Hughes had taken was tiny but bright. The furniture was old, but solid. Margaret Clarke, the owner, warned her straight away:
Im a stickler for order, cleanliness and peace. If somethings wrong, tell me at oncedont keep it bottled up.
Poppy nodded. All she wanted was a quiet night without neighbour squabbles or drunken shouting. After a string of sharehouses on the edge of town where the neighbours never gave a moments peace, this seemed like heaven.
She moved in, and the two got off on the right foot. Margaret wasnt cruel, just very private and taciturn. In her eyes there was a permanent, weary resentment toward the world, perhaps toward people and life itself.
Poppy tried not to be a bother. She cooked early in the morning while Margaret still slept, moved around as silently as a mouse, kept the television off most of the time, and lived like a mouse in a cupboard.
Then Misty turned up.
The cat didnt exactly stroll in; she waddled in, a gaunt grey creature with sharp green eyes that seemed to say, Please, take me in. Poppys heart melted.
She carried Misty upstairs, fed her, gave her water, and tucked her into an old towel in a box. The cat curled up, purred, and for the first time in months Poppy felt something inside her melt.
Mistress Misty, my dear, she whispered.
Hiding the cat seemed simple enough. Margaret rarely entered Poppys room, and Misty proved to be a quiet animalno scratching, no darting about, just purring and sleeping on the windowsill.
One evening, however, the flats hallway was broken by a sharp call:
Poppy Hughes!
Margarets voice was icy, enough to make Poppys skin crawl. She stepped into the hallway, face twisted, clutching a clump of grey fur.
What on earth is that? Whos in there?
Mrs. Clarke, I
A cat?! Margaret shrieked as if a snake had slithered across the floor. Her face flushed, her hands shook.
I cant stand that messhair everywhere, the smell! I cant stand them!
Its clean, isnt it?
Either get rid of it, or Ill move out!
She turned on her heel and slammed the door.
Poppy sank onto the sofa, trembling. Misty padded over, brushed against her legs and let out a plaintive meow.
What do we do now, love? Where do we go? Poppy whispered, tears spilling down her cheeks.
Start over? Pack up? She didnt have the strength to move.
So she decided: as long as Margaret didnt kick her out, shed stayand hide the cat even better.
The next few days turned into a covert operation worthy of a spy thriller. Poppy stashed Misty in the wardrobe whenever Margarets footsteps echoed down the hall. She fed the cat only at dawn or late evening, when Margaret was out buying groceries. The litter box was tucked in the far corner, behind an old suitcase.
Misty seemed to understand the stakes. She didnt meow, just perched silently on the windowsill, staring out with those mournful green eyes. Sometimes it looked as if she even breathed more carefully, trying not to give herself away.
Youre a clever one, Poppy cooed, stroking the cats warm grey back. Hang in there a little longer. Everything will sort itself out.
But nothing sorted itself out.
Margaret prowled the flat with a look of betrayal, sniffing corners, pausing at Poppys door to listen. Poppy froze, clutching Misty to her chest, heart thudding as if it might leap out.
Lord, please dont hear me, she thought.
The landlady lingered a minute longer, then left. The atmosphere in the flat thickened to an almost palpable tension.
At dinner Margaret ate her soup in silence, eyes never leaving the bowl. Then, abruptly, she snapped:
You think Im a fool?
Poppy choked on her tea.
I get it. You havent kicked her out, youve just hidden her. You think I dont feel it?
Mrs. Clarke
Enough! Margaret shot up, voice cracking. Dont lie to me. I warned you. But if youre so clever, fine. No hair, no sound. And when my grandson arrives, make sure theres no cat spirit lingering!
She stormed off, leaving Poppy bewildered.
Grandson?
The next day Margaret talked about her grandson in a dry, clipped tone, but Poppy caught a flicker of excitementor perhaps anxiety.
Olivers coming for the holidays. Hes twelve. His parents are always busy, so he stays with me. He arrives on Friday.
Thats nice! Poppy replied, trying to sound upbeat. You miss him, I suppose?
Margaret winced.
I miss him, yes. Hes become a stranger, glued to his phone, never really talking to me. He comes for a week, then vanishes again. Every year the same.
A genuine hurt slipped through her voice.
But youre his grandmother! He loves you!
He loves what? The WiFi? He doesnt even look at me. Hell be here for a week and then off he goes.
Margarets voice softened. And make sure your cats gone. Understand?
Poppy nodded, wondering where on earth shed hide a cat for a whole week.
Friday arrived in a flash. Oliver strutted in that eveninga lanky teen with headphones glued to his ears and a permanently sullen expression. He offered a curt greeting, retreated to his room and locked the door.
Margaret fussed about dinner, calling him over. He slumped at the table, eyes glued to his phone.
Oliver, at least have a bite, she urged.
I dont want to.
I made cutlets just for you.
I said I dont want them!
From the thin wall, Poppy could hear every sigh. Her heart ached for Margaret, who was clearly trying her best, while the boy barely glanced at her.
Misty perched on the windowsill, watching the darkness outside with sad green eyes.
Hang on, girl. Just a little longer.
The next day, an unexpected mishap unfolded.
Poppy stepped into the bathroom for a minute, leaving the bedroom door ajarthere was no lock anyway. Misty, perhaps bored or curious, squeezed through the crack and slipped into the hallway.
When Poppy returned, the cat was gone.
Panic surged, a cold sweat ran down her spine.
Misty! My dear Misty! she shouted, dashing into the corridor.
There, sitting on the livingroom floor, was Oliver, petting the fluffy grey creature, which was purring so loudly it sounded like a tractor starting up.
Oh, Poppy exhaled.
Oliver looked up, surprised, then smileda real smile, the first since hed arrived.
Whose cat is this?
Its mine, Poppy stammered, embarrassed. Sorry, Oliver, she just wandered.
Can I pet her a bit more? he asked, his voice unmistakably childlike. Shes so soft!
Of course, Poppy replied, unsure what to do. On one hand, Margaret would burst out in a storm; on the other, Olivers delighted eyes were hard to ignore.
Just then, Margaret emerged from the kitchen, froze at the scene, and stared at the two of them.
Poppy braced herself for an explosion.
Oliver, Margaret said quietly, are you playing with the cat?
Yes, Grandma! Look how shes purring! Can I feed her?
She hesitated, then gave a slow nod.
Fine.
From that moment everything changed.
Oliver clung to Misty, feeding her, playing, even sketching her with a pencil. He abandoned his phone for a while, laughed, chatted with his grandmother about school, friends, and how he desperately wanted a cat of his own one day.
Margaret sat at the kitchen table, listening. For the first time, a warm glow appeared in her eyes.
One evening she approached Poppy.
Let her stay, she whispered. Misty. Shes brought a bit of joy into this house.
A single tear slipped down Margarets cheek.
Three months passed.
Oliver called every evening, not his parents, but his grandmother, asking to see Misty via video call. Margaret fumbled with the handset, cursing the technology, Stupid thing! Can you see her, Oliver?
I see her, Grandma! Hi, Misty!
Hearing his familiar voice, the cat padded closer to the screen, meowing as if she recognized him.
Grandma, Ill be back for the spring break, right?
Exactly, love. Well be waiting with Misty.
They really were waiting. Margaret had even bought a feathered cat toy at the local shop, convinced Oliver would love it.
Poppy no longer hid in shadows. She cooked alongside Margaret, sipped tea together, and shared stories of her late husband, how they met, and the hardship after his passing.
Honestly, Margaret, if it werent for Misty, I dont know how Id have got through, Poppy confessed.
Margaret nodded, understanding.
Animals sense when were down. They come quietly, no words needed.
The two women grew closea pair of solitary souls bound by circumstance and a modest grey cat.
When spring arrived, Oliver returned with a hefty backpack stuffed with gifts: cat food, a new collar with a tiny bell, and a plush bed.
Grandma, I bought all this myself! he declared proudly.
Good lad, Margaret said, hugging him tight.
Oliver spent the week playing with Misty, wandering the garden, drawing. Before leaving, he asked:
Grandma, can I come back for the summer? Stay longer?
Of course, love.
Margaret held her grandson, realizing happiness wasnt in silence or strict order. It was in such embraces, a childs laughter, the patter of tiny paws down the hallway.
All thanks to an unremarkable grey cat.
