First Evening
The key slid smoothly into the lock. The door opened onto silence. I flipped the light switch. "Snowball?" No response. Following the note's guidance, I entered the kitchen. Gleaming countertops held neatly stacked dishes drying. I located the cat food, filled a clean bowl, and replenished the filtered water. Placing it in the designated corner, I tapped the can lid. "Dinner, Snowball." I waited. Minutes later, a fluffy white Persian emerged slowly from the hallway shadows.
He regarded me warily before dipping his head to eat. I stepped back, observing. He ate slowly, glancing up occasionally. As Sophia advised, I made no move to touch him. Finishing, he licked a paw and vanished silently. I checked the litter box, attended to it. Before leaving, I paused in the living room. Impeccably tidy, walls lined with bookshelves organized by color. A glass cabinet displayed butterfly specimens. Elegant, yet sterile – more museum than home.
Kitchen Discovery
Feeding Snowball the next afternoon, I lingered slightly. He remained hidden. After my tasks, my gaze wandered the kitchen. A neatly penned grocery list, matching the cat instructions, was magneted to the fridge door. Beside it, a small, faded Polaroid. I leaned closer. Teenage boys in rumpled band T-shirts grinned before a garage, holding instruments. One blond boy had his arm around the neck of a dark-haired one. I frowned. The photo looked old. The blond boy's face... held a vague familiarity. I couldn't place it. A schoolmate? Just a common look? I dismissed it. Her past, not mine.
The Poetry Book
On the third day, Snowball was bolder, watching me enter from the living room sofa. After feeding him, a book spine on the shelf caught my eye. T.S. Eliot's "The Waste Land," a specific, worn paperback edition. I stopped. I owned its exact twin on my study shelf, an obscure version bought in college. I pulled it out. Yellowed pages. It lay open, a bookmark holding it at a specific page in "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock." In the margin, faint pencil lines underlined verses. I leaned in. "I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each..." I closed the book, replaced it. Coincidence. Many owned this book. But the same edition, opened to the same resonant page? I shook my head, chiding myself. Just coincidence.
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The key slid smoothly into the lock. The door opened onto silence. I flipped the light switch. "Snowball?" No response. Following the note's guidance, I entered the kitchen. Gleaming countertops held neatly stacked dishes drying. I located the cat food, filled a clean bowl, and replenished the filtered water. Placing it in the designated corner, I tapped the can lid. "Dinner, Snowball." I waited. Minutes later, a fluffy white Persian emerged slowly from the hallway shadows.
He regarded me warily before dipping his head to eat. I stepped back, observing. He ate slowly, glancing up occasionally. As Sophia advised, I made no move to touch him. Finishing, he licked a paw and vanished silently. I checked the litter box, attended to it. Before leaving, I paused in the living room. Impeccably tidy, walls lined with bookshelves organized by color. A glass cabinet displayed butterfly specimens. Elegant, yet sterile – more museum than home.
Kitchen Discovery
Feeding Snowball the next afternoon, I lingered slightly. He remained hidden. After my tasks, my gaze wandered the kitchen. A neatly penned grocery list, matching the cat instructions, was magneted to the fridge door. Beside it, a small, faded Polaroid. I leaned closer. Teenage boys in rumpled band T-shirts grinned before a garage, holding instruments. One blond boy had his arm around the neck of a dark-haired one. I frowned. The photo looked old. The blond boy's face... held a vague familiarity. I couldn't place it. A schoolmate? Just a common look? I dismissed it. Her past, not mine.
The Poetry Book
On the third day, Snowball was bolder, watching me enter from the living room sofa. After feeding him, a book spine on the shelf caught my eye. T.S. Eliot's "The Waste Land," a specific, worn paperback edition. I stopped. I owned its exact twin on my study shelf, an obscure version bought in college. I pulled it out. Yellowed pages. It lay open, a bookmark holding it at a specific page in "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock." In the margin, faint pencil lines underlined verses. I leaned in. "I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each..." I closed the book, replaced it. Coincidence. Many owned this book. But the same edition, opened to the same resonant page? I shook my head, chiding myself. Just coincidence.
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