Make sure theres no cat spirit left, or youll have to clear the flat out! the landlady roared.
The room Blythe had rented was tiny but bathed in light. The furniture was old, yet solid. Margaret Hargreaves, the landlady, had warned her straight away:
Im a strict woman. I like order, cleanliness, silence. If somethings wrong, tell me at oncedont keep it hidden.
Blythe nodded. All she wanted was a quiet night without neighbour brawls or drunken shouts. After enduring a grim suburb flat where the neighbours never stopped, this place felt like a sanctuary.
She settled in, and the tension eased. Margaret turned out not to be cruel, just reserveda quiet woman with a permanent, lingering hurt in her eyes, as if the world had betrayed her.
Blythe tried not to disturb. She cooked early when Margaret was still asleep, moved silently, hardly ever turned the television on. She lived like a mouse.
Then Misty appeared.
The cat didnt just wander in; she seemed to cling herself to the building. A gaunt, grey creature with sharp green eyes perched by the stairwell, mewing plaintively, as if begging: Please, take me in. Blythes resolve cracked.
She hauled the cat upstairs, fed her, gave her water, and laid an old towel in a box. Misty curled into a ball, purred, and for the first time in months Blythe felt something thaw inside her.
Little one, my dear, she whispered.
Hiding Misty seemed easy. Margaret rarely entered Blythes room, and the cat was a quiet oneno scratching, no darting about, just purring and sleeping on the windowsill.
One evening a voice cut through the quiet:
Blythe!
Margarets tone was icecold; Blythe jumped. She stepped into the hallway where Margaret stood at the door, face twisted, a clump of grey fur in her hands.
What is this? Whos that in my flat? Margaret demanded, her voice rising as if shed seen a snake.
Its a cat, Blythe stammered.
Margarets face flushed, hands trembling. I cant stand them! Dirt, hair, the smell!
But shes clean, Blythe pleaded.
Get rid of the cat or Ill evict you! Margaret shouted, slamming the door.
Blythe sank onto the sofa, trembling. Misty padded over, brushed against her legs, and let out a soft meow.
What will we do now, my dear? Blythe whispered, tears streaming down her cheeks. Where do we go?
She felt the weight of starting over againpacking, searching, fleeingyet she could not leave. She was exhausted, but she wasnt ready to give up.
So she decided: as long as Margaret didnt force her out, she would stayand hide the cat even better.
The next days turned into a covert operation. Blythe slipped Misty into the wardrobe whenever Margarets footsteps echoed down the corridor. She fed her only at dawn or late evening, when Margaret disappeared to the corner shop. The litter box was stashed in the far corner, behind an old trunk.
Misty seemed to understand. She never meowed, merely perched silently on the windowsill, watching the street with mournful green eyes, breathing as if trying not to betray herself.
Youre clever, Blythe whispered, stroking the soft grey back. Just a little longer. Itll work out.
But nothing improved.
Margaret prowled the flat with a look of betrayal etched on her face, sniffing every corner. Once she lingered at Blythes door, listening intently. Blythe froze, clutching Misty to her chest, heart hammering as if it would burst.
Lord, please dont hear us, she thought.
Margaret lingered a minute longer, then retreated, the atmosphere thickening like a storm about to break.
At dinner, Margaret ate her soup in silence, eyes never leaving the bowl. Suddenly she snapped, Do you think Im a fool?
Blythe choked on her tea.
I get it. You havent kicked the cat out. Youve hidden her. You think I cant feel it? Margaret hissed.
Enough! she stood abruptly, voice trembling. Dont lie to me. I warned you. But if youre so sly, fineno hair, no sound. And when my grandson arrives, make sure theres no spirit left!
She stormed back to her room, leaving Blythe reeling.
Grandson?
The next morning Margaret talked about the boy in a dry tone, but Blythe caught a flicker of something elseanxiety, perhaps.
My grandson Harry is coming for the holidays. Hes twelve. His parents are always busy, so they send him to me. Hell be here on Friday.
Thats good, Blythe said, trying to sound supportive. You miss him?
Margarets face twisted.
I miss him, but hes a stranger now. He lives in his phone, barely talks to me. He comes, sits for a week, then leaves. Every year.
Her voice cracked with genuine pain.
But youre his grandmother! He loves you! Blythe protested.
He thinks Im irrelevant, Margaret muttered. Only the internet matters to him. She paused, then lowered her voice. And make sure your cat is gone. Understand?
Blythe nodded, wondering where she could hide a cat for a whole week.
Friday arrived too quickly. Harry slunk in that eveninga lanky, angular teen with earbuds glued to his ears, a scowl on his face. He offered a curt greeting and vanished into Blythes room, closing the door behind him.
Margaret fussed over the table, calling everyone to dinner. Harry slumped into his chair, eyes glued to his phone.
Harry, at least have a bite, she urged.
I dont want any, he snapped.
I made your favorite meatballs.
I told youI dont want them!
Blythe, pressed against the thin wall, felt her heart twist. Poor Margaret, trying so hard, only to be ignored by her own grandson.
Misty sat on the windowsill, watching the darkness outside, eyes glistening with sorrow.
Hang in there, girl. Just a little longer, Blythe whispered.
The next day, disaster struck.
Blythe stepped into the bathroom for a minute, leaving the room door ajarthere was no lock. Perhaps Misty, curious or restless, slipped through the crack and darted into the hallway.
When Blythe returned, the cat was gone. Panic surged through her, a cold sweat crawling up her spine.
Misty! Misty! she called, sprinting into the corridor, heart pounding.
There, in the middle of the lounge, sat Harry, a grin spreading across his face as he cradled Misty, who purred so loudly it sounded like a tractor starting.
Oh, Blythe breathed, stunned.
Harry looked up, eyes bright with childlike wonder. Whose cat is this?
Its mine, Blythe stammered, shifting from foot to foot. Im sorry, Harry, she just wandered out.
Can I pet her a bit more? he asked, voice softening. Shes so cuddly!
Sure, Blythe replied, unable to form a better answer. She knew that if Margaret heard this, a fullblown scandal would erupt, yet Harrys delighted stare made her stomach twist.
Just then Margaret emerged from the kitchen, eyes widening at the scene. She froze, the tension in the room snapping like a wire.
Ilya I mean, Harry are you playing with the cat? she asked quietly.
Yes, Grandma! Look how she purrs! Can I feed her? he pleaded.
Margaret stared at her grandson, then at the trembling Blythe, before nodding slowly. Fine, she said softly. You may.
From that moment everything shifted.
Harry never left Mistys side. He fed her, played with her, even sketched her in pencil. He abandoned his phone, laughing, telling Margaret stories about school, friends, and how hed love to have a cat of his own one day.
Margaret, seated at the kitchen table, listened. For the first time, a warm glow softened her eyes.
One evening she approached Blythe. Let her stay, she whispered. Misty brings a bit of joy to this house.
A single tear slipped down Margarets cheek.
Three months passed. Harry called every night, not his parents, but his grandmother, asking to see Misty over video chat. Margaret fumbled with the phone, cursing the unreliable tech.
Yes, I see her, Grandma! Hi, Misty! Harry cried, and the cat, hearing her familiar voice, padded closer, meowing as if she recognized him.
Grandma, Ill be back for the spring break, right? Harry asked.
Absolutely, love. Well all be waiting, Margaret replied, smiling.
She had even bought a feathertipped cat toy at the shop, thinking Harry would love it.
Blythe no longer hid in shadows. She cooked alongside Margaret, sipped tea, and shared stories of her late husbandhow they met, the hardships after his death.
You know, Margaret, if it werent for Misty, I dont think Id have made it, Blythe confessed.
Margaret nodded, understanding. Animals sense our pain. They come when were low, no words needed.
The two women grew close, two solitary souls bound by circumstance and a modest grey cat.
When spring arrived, Harry returned, backpack brimming with gifts: gourmet cat food, a new bellcollar, a plush bed.
Grandma, I bought everything myself! he declared proudly.
Well done, dear, Margaret praised.
Harry spent the week with Misty, playing in the garden, drawing, and before he left he asked, Can I stay here for the summer, longterm?
Of course! Margaret beamed, hugging him.
She felt a surge of happinessnot in the silence she once prized, not in the rigid order she clung to, but in the laughter echoing down the hallway, the patter of tiny paws, the rustle of a child’s backpack.
All because of an unremarkable grey cat.
