Dont let the cats spirit linger, or clear the flat, the landlady shouted, her voice echoing down the narrow hallway.
The room that Gillian had taken was modest but bright. The furniture was old, yet solid. Mrs. Margaret Whitaker, the lady of the house, warned her straight away:
Im a strict sort of person. I like order, cleanliness, and quiet. If anythings amiss, tell me at oncedont keep it inside.
Gillian nodded. All she wanted was a peaceful night, free from the squabbles of neighbours and the drunken shouts that had haunted her in the cramped council flat on the edge of town. Here, far from the constant clamor, the place seemed a slice of heaven.
She settled in, and the two women soon found a rhythm. Margaret was not unkind; she was simply reserved, a quiet woman with a permanent, lingering hurt in her eyesperhaps a grievance against the world, or against people, or against life itself.
Gillian tried not to intrude. She cooked early in the morning while Margaret still slept, moved about silently, and scarcely turned the television on. She lived like a mouse.
Then Lily appeared.
The cat seemed to have wandered in of her own accord, a gaunt grey creature with sharp green eyes. She sat at the foot of the stairwell, mewing plaintively, as if saying, Please, take me in.
Gillians heart softened. She carried Lily up, fed her, gave her water, and tucked her into an old towel in a cardboard box. The cat curled into a ball and began to purr, and for the first time in many months Gillian felt a warmth thaw inside her.
Little Lily, my dear, she whispered.
Hiding the cat seemed easy enough. Margaret rarely entered Gillians room, and Lily was a gentle soulshe didnt scratch, didnt dart about, only purred and slept on the windowsill.
One evening, however, a chilling voice cut through the flat:
Gillian Hughes!
Margaret stood in the doorway, face twisted, a tuft of grey fur clutched in her hand.
What on earth is this? Who have you got in there? she demanded.
The cat
Margarets face flushed, her hands trembled. I cannot stand them! The dirt, the hair everywhere, the smell!
The cat is clean, Gillian protested weakly.
Get rid of it, or clear the flat! Margaret snapped, turning and slamming the door.
Gillian sank onto the sofa, her hands shaking. Lily brushed against her legs and let out a plaintive meow.
What shall we do now, my dear? Gillian murmured, tears slipping down her cheeks. Where shall we go?
She could not leave; she had no strength left. So she resolved to stay as long as she could, and to hide Lily even better.
The days that followed turned into a covert operation. When Margarets footsteps echoed in the corridor, Gillian tucked Lily into the wardrobe. She fed the cat only in the early dawn or late evening, when Margaret was out buying groceries. The litter box was concealed in the farthest corner, behind an old trunk.
Lily seemed to understand. She made no noise, perched silently on the windowsill, watching the world with sorrowful green eyes. At times it seemed as if she breathed more carefully, lest she be discovered.
Youre clever, my sweet, Gillian whispered, stroking Lilys warm grey back. Just a little longer. Everything will work out.
But nothing improved.
Margaret stalked the flat, her expression one of betrayal, sniffing every corner. Once she lingered by Gillians door, listening intently. Gillian froze, clutching Lily to her chest, heart pounding as if it would burst.
Lord, let her not hear, she thought, as the landlady stood a moment longer before retreating. The atmosphere in the flat grew thick as treacle.
At dinner, Margaret ate her soup in silence, then suddenly blurted out, Do you think Im a fool?
Gillian choked on her tea. I understand perfectly. You havent driven her away. Youve hidden her. You think I dont feel it?
Mrs. Whitaker
Enough! Margaret snapped up from the table. Dont lie to me. I warned you. If youre so clever, then keep her hiddenno hair, no sound! And when my grandson arrives, make sure theres no lingering spirit!
She stormed off, leaving Gillian bewildered.
Grandson?
The next day Margaret spoke of her grandson in a dry tone, but Gillian caught a flicker of something newexcitement, perhaps, or anxiety.
My grandson, Ilya, is coming for the holidays. Hes twelve. His parents are everbusy, so theyre sending him to me. Hell arrive on Friday.
Thats wonderful! Gillian tried to encourage. You must be looking forward to him.
Margaret grimaced. Im looking forward to not being ignored. Hes glued to his phone, barely speaks to me. He comes for a week and then vanishes again, year after year. Its a lonely cycle.
Her voice cracked with genuine pain. But youre his grandmother! He loves you!
She might love me, but he doesnt care at all. As long as his internet works, hes happy. She fell silent, then added softly, And make sure your cat is gone. Understand?
Gillian nodded, wondering how she could hide Lily for a whole week.
Friday arrived too quickly. Ilya turned up in the eveninga lanky teenager with headphones and a sullen expression. He greeted briefly, slipped into his room and shut the door.
Margaret fussed about dinner, coaxing him to eat, but he stared at his phone, replying, I dont want anything. She offered meatballs, he refused again, and retreated further into his device.
From her own room Gillian heard the silence, feeling her heart contract for the weary Margaret. Lily perched on the windowsill, gazing out at the dark street with mournful eyes.
Hold on, little one. Just a bit longer, Gillian whispered.
The next morning, Gillian stepped into the little bathroom for a minute, leaving the door ajar. Perhaps Lily, curious or restless, slipped through the crack and padded down the hallway.
When Gillian returned, Lily was gone.
Panic surged. She burst into the corridor and froze. In the middle of the sitting room, on the floor, sat Ilya, a cat curled in his lap, purring so loudly it seemed a tractor starting.
Oh, Gillian exhaled, astonished.
Ilya lifted his head, eyes bright, and smiled for the first time since his arrival. Whose cat is this?
Its mine, Gillian stammered, stepping forward. Im sorry, Ilya, she just slipped out.
May I pet her a little longer? he asked, his voice childlike and delighted. Shes so soft!
Of course, Gillian replied, torn. On one side, Margaret would storm back, and a fresh scandal would erupt. On the other, Ilyas face lit up with pure joy.
Just then, Margaret emerged from the kitchen, saw the scene, and halted, eyes wide.
Ilya, she whispered, are you playing with that cat?
Yes, Grandma! Look how she purrs! Can I feed her?
Margaret stared at her grandson, then slowly nodded. You may.
From that moment everything changed.
Ilya never left Lilys side. He fed her, played, even drew her portrait with a pencil, abandoning his phone for real conversation. He laughed, talked about school, friends, and how he dreamed of having a cat of his own.
Margaret, seated at the kitchen table, watched him and, for the first time, a soft warmth flickered in her eyes.
One evening she approached Gillian. Let Lily stay, she said quietly. Shes brought a bit of happiness into this house.
A single tear slid down Margarets cheek.
Three months passed. Ilya called every evening, not his parents, but his grandmother, asking to see Lily on video call. Margaret fumbled with the phone, never quite catching Lily on screen, cursing the clumsy technology.
Blast this thing! she muttered. Ilya, can you see her?
Yes, Grandma! Hi, Lily! Ilyas voice rang through the speaker. Lily, hearing the familiar tone, padded closer, mewing softly as if recognizing him.
Grandma, Ill be back for the spring break, alright? Ilya promised.
Absolutely, love. Lily and I will be waiting.
True to his word, Ilya returned, this time bearing gifts: a new bowl of food, a sparkling collar with a tiny bell, a plush bed. I bought everything myself, Grandma! he declared proudly.
Good lad, Margaret replied, beaming.
Ilya spent the week with Lily, roaming the garden, sketching, and before he left he asked, Grandma, may I stay here for the summer? Longer?
Of course! Margaret embraced him, feeling a happiness she had not known for years. It was not in the silence or the strict order she had prized, but in the laughter of a boy, the soft tread of a cats paws, and the warmth of two lonely women finding companionship.
All because of a plain grey cat named Lily.
