And the City Slept Beneath it Part 3

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The next evening it rained. Not a thunderstorm, not an angry patter, but that quiet, slow fall, as if the sky were weeping without wanting to be seen. The cat liked the rain. It drowned out thought. And it made everything look the same—glossy, vague, transient. But that night, she wasn't waiting on the roof. She was standing below. In front of an old house with faded plaster, a crooked shutter, and a mailbox that hadn't been emptied for a long time. It wasn't just any house. She had found her way without thinking. Her paws carried her over fences, through gardens, along tracks known only to her. And now she stood there—in front of that third-story window. Or rather, in front of what was left of it. An empty frame. No glass. No light. But something flickered inside her. A smell. A voice. An image. The woman had sat there. Always with a book on her lap, but often she hadn't read at all. Just looked out the window, with a smile that needed no explanation. Sometimes she had spoken, but not to the cat—more to the world, in a tone that said, "I know you can hear me." The cat jumped onto the windowsill. The frame was cold, but familiar. She closed her eyes. Suddenly, everything was back. The smell of freshly brewed tea. The music from the old radio—something French, light. The chair that always creaked slightly when she stood up. And a ray of sunlight that fell through the half-open curtain, warming her as she lay there. She wasn't sure how much of it was real. But that didn't matter. Sometimes it's enough for something to feel real. A noise made her sit up. A door opened. Downstairs. Then footsteps on the stairwell. She jumped down, lithe as only cats can, and scurried into the shadows. The man from the roof came out of the house. He carried an old book in his hand and held it carefully, like a promise. He stopped. Looked around. Not searching. More like sensing. The cat stepped out of the shadows. Just a little. He smiled. "You're back," he said. And then, after a pause: "I was in the apartment today. It's empty. But... it still smelled of her. Just a hint. As if she had just left." The cat lay down. Not close, not far. "I found something," he said, holding up the book. "Her diary. I thought I'd thrown it away. But it was in the old closet, right at the back. It was open. As if someone had read it." He sat down on the bottom step of the stairs, the book on his lap. "Mira loved you. It's in here. You were her silent comfort. Her last refuge. She called you 'my silent shadow angel.'" The cat raised its head. A sound—barely audible—ripped from her throat. Not a meow. A whisper of fur and heart. And there, in the rain, still falling softly, he read aloud. Not to himself. Not to the wind. For her.