Dont let the cats spirit linger, or clear out the flat, the landlady shrieked.
The room Emily rented was tiny but flooded with light. The furniture was old, but solid. Mrs. Margaret Whitaker, the landlady, laid down her rules straight away:
Im a strict sort of woman. I love order, cleanliness, silence. If anythings wrong, tell me immediatelydont keep it bottled up.
Emily nodded. All she wanted was a peaceful night, free from neighbour squabbles and drunken shouting. After a string of cramped council estates where the walls never shut out the chaos, this place on the outskirts of Leeds felt like a sanctuary.
She settled in. Margaret proved not cruel, just reservedquiet, with a permanent flicker of bitterness in her eyes, as if the world had wronged her long ago.
Emily tried not to intrude. She cooked early, while Margaret slept, moved like a whisper, and kept the television off. She lived like a mouse.
Then Misty appeared.
The cat hadnt been brought in; it had simply shown up. A gaunt grey feline with sharp green eyes, perched on the stair landing, mewing plaintively as if to say, Please, take me in.
Emilys heart melted. She scooped Misty up, fed her, gave her water, and tucked her into an old towel in a cardboard box. The cat curled into a tight ball, started purring, and Emily felt, for the first time in months, something thaw inside her.
Misty, my dear, she whispered.
Hiding the cat seemed easy. Margaret rarely entered Emilys room, and Misty was a quiet creatureno scratching, no dashing about, just purring on the windowsill.
One evening, however, Margarets voice sliced through the hallway:
Emily Smith!
Her tone was icecold, and Emily jumped. Margaret stood in the doorway, her face twisted, a clump of grey fur clutched in her hand.
What is this? Whos that in your flat? Margaret demanded.
Thecat? Emily stammered.
The landlady snapped, I cant stand them! Dirt! Fur everywhere! The smell!
Shes clean, Emily pleaded.
Either get rid of the cats spirit, or get out of my flat! Margaret roared, turned, and slammed the door.
Emily sank onto the sofa, trembling. Misty padded over, rubbed against her legs, and let out a soft meow.
What now, my girl? Emily whispered, tears streaming down her cheeks. Where do we go?
She couldnt leave; she was exhausted, powerless. She decided: as long as Margaret didnt force her out, she would stayand hide Misty even better.
The next days turned into a covert operation. Emily slipped Misty into the wardrobe whenever she heard Margarets footsteps. She fed her only at dawn or late evening when Margaret was out buying groceries. The litter box was stashed in the far corner, behind an old suitcase.
Misty seemed to understand. She never meowed, just sat silently on the windowsill, staring out with mournful green eyes, as if breathing carefully not to give herself away.
Youre a clever one, Emily murmured, stroking the cats warm back. Hold on a little longer. Things will get better.
Nothing improved.
Margaret prowled the flat, her face a mask of betrayal, sniffing corners, pausing at Emilys door, listening intently. Emily froze, clutching Misty to her chest, her heart pounding as if it might burst.
Lord, please dont hear us, she thought, as Margaret lingered a minute longer before finally leaving. The atmosphere grew heavy, oppressive.
At dinner, Margaret ate her soup in silence, then suddenly snapped, Do you think Im a fool?
Emily choked on her tea.
I understand perfectly. You didnt throw the cat out. You hid her. Do you think I dont feel it?
Mrs. Whitaker
No more lies! Margaret rose abruptly. I warned you. If youre so clever, keep it hiddenno fur, no sound! When my grandson arrives, make sure theres no spirit left!
She stormed off, leaving Emily bewildered.
Grandson?
The next day Margaret spoke of her grandson in a dry tone, but Emily caught a flicker of something newanxiety, perhaps.
My grandson Jack is coming for the holidays. Hes twelve. His parents are always busy, so they send him to stay with me. Hell be here on Friday.
Thats wonderful! Emily replied, trying to sound upbeat. You must miss him.
Margaret winced. Miss him? Hes a stranger now, glued to his phone, barely talks to me. He comes, stays a week, then leavessame every year. Pain cracked her voice. But youre his grandmother! He loves you!
He does, Margaret snarled. He probably doesnt even notice me. As long as the internet works.
She softened, And make sure your cat is gone. Understand?
Emily nodded, wondering how to hide Misty for a whole week.
Friday arrived too quickly. Jack appeared at dusk, tall, angular, headphones glued to his ears, a scowl on his face. He muttered a greeting, slipped into his room, and shut the door.
Margaret fussed about dinner, coaxed Jack to eat, but he stared at his phone, ignoring everything.
Emily, hidden behind the thin wall of her room, felt her heart tighten at the sight of the lonely old woman.
Misty perched on the windowsill, watching the darkness outside, eyes full of sorrow.
Hold on, love, Emily whispered. Just a little longer.
The next morning, Emily stepped out for a quick bathroom break, leaving the room door ajar. Misty, perhaps curious, slipped through the crack and vanished into the hallway.
When Emily returned, panic surged. Misty! Misty! she shouted, racing down the corridor.
In the living room, Jack sat on the floor, Misty curled in his lap, purring so loudly it rang like a tractor engine.
Oh, Emily breathed, stunned.
Jack looked up, surprised, then smiled for the first time since his arrival. Whose cat is this?
Its mine, Emily stammered, shifting from foot to foot. Im sorry, Jack, she just
Can I pet her a bit longer? he asked, childishly amazed. Shes so soft!
Of course, Emily said, breathless.
Margaret entered from the kitchen, halted at the sight, and froze. Emily braced for an explosion.
Jack, Margaret said quietly, are you playing with a cat?
Yes, Grandma! Look how shes purring! Jack replied, eyes bright. Can I feed her?
Margaret stared at her grandson, then slowly nodded. You may.
From that moment everything shifted.
Jack never left Mistys side. He fed her, played, even drew her portrait with a pencil, abandoning his phone on the sofa. He laughed, talked about school, friends, and how hed love to have a cat of his own someday.
Margaret, seated at the kitchen table, watched her grandson for the first time without resentment. Warmth flickered in her eyes.
Later, she approached Emily. Let her stay, she whispered. Misty brings a little joy into this house.
A single tear rolled down Margarets cheek.
Three months passed. Jack called every evening, not his parents, but his grandmother, asking to see Misty on video. Margaret fumbled with the phone, muttering about the useless gadget.
Got it, love! Misty, hello! shed say.
Misty, hearing the familiar voice, would creep closer to the screen, meowing as if she recognized it.
Grandma, Ill be back for the spring break, right? Jack asked.
Exactly, sweetheart. Well be waiting with Misty.
Margaret even bought a feathered cat toy at the shop, thinking Jack would love it.
Emily no longer hid in corners. She cooked with Margaret, shared tea, and told stories of her late husband, how they met, and the grief that had followed his death.
You know, Margaret, if it werent for Misty, I dont think Id have made it, Emily confessed.
Margaret nodded, understanding. Animals sense our pain. They come when we need them, no words needed.
They became close, two solitary women bound by fate and a small grey cat.
When spring arrived, Jack returned with a big backpack full of gifts: food for Misty, a new collar with a tiny bell, and a soft cushion.
Grandma, I bought all this myself! he announced proudly.
Good job, love, Margaret replied, hugging him.
Jack spent the week with Misty, playing in the garden, drawing, and before he left said, Grandma, can I stay here for the summer? Longer?
Of course you can, Margaret answered, embracing him.
She thought, at last, happiness wasnt found in silence or strict order, but in the laughter of a child and the gentle purr of a modest grey cat.
