Make sure theres no lingering cat spirit, or clear the flat, the landlady shouted, voice echoing down the hallway.
The room Emma had rented was tiny but bright, its walls painted a washedout cream. The furniture was oldfashioned but solid, the kind youd inherit from a greataunt. Margaret Hawthorne, the owner, greeted her with a sharp warning:
Im a strict sort of person. I like order, cleanliness, and quiet. If anythings amiss, tell me straight awaydont hold it in.
Emma nodded, yearning only for a peaceful night, free of neighbourly brawls and drunken shouts. After a string of flatshares on the outskirts of Manchester where the neighbours never let anyone sleep, this place felt like a haven.
She settled in, and the two women fell into a tentative rhythm. Margaret wasnt cruel, merely withdrawn, her eyes forever holding a quiet resentment toward the world, perhaps toward people, perhaps toward life itself. Emma tried not to intrude. She cooked early in the morning while Margaret still slept, moved like a whisper, kept the television off, and lived as a mouse does.
Then Misty appeared.
A gaunt grey cat with intelligent green eyes lingered by the stairwell, mewing plaintively as if saying, Please, take me in. Emmas heart cracked. She scooped the animal up, fed it, gave it water, and tucked it into an old towel in a cardboard box. The cat curled into a tight ball, purred, and for the first time in months Emma felt something inside her thaw.
Little one, my dear, she whispered. Youre safe now.
Hiding the cat seemed simple enough. Margaret rarely entered Emmas room, and Misty proved a model of discretionno scratching, no dashing about, only soft purrs and sleepy laps on the windowsill.
One evening, however, Margarets voice cracked the silence:
Emma!
It was a frosty, icecapped tone that made Emma flinch. She stepped into the corridor to find Margaret standing in the doorway, face twisted, a clump of grey fur clutched in her hand.
What on earth is this? Whos that in here?
Mrs. Hawthorne, I
A cat? Margaret hissed, as if the animal were a snake or a rat. Her cheeks flushed, hands trembling.
I cant stand the mess! The dirt! The hair everywhere! The smell!
Its clean, isnt it?
Get rid of the cats spirit, or get out of the flat! Margaret snapped, turned, and slammed the door.
Emma sank onto the sofa, hands shaking. Misty padded up, brushed against her legs, and let out a plaintive meow.
What shall we do now, my dear? Emma murmured, tears spilling unchecked. Where do we go from here?
The thought of starting over, packing up, searching for another placeeverything seemed impossible. She lacked the strength to leave. So she decided: as long as she wasnt driven out by force, she would stay, and she would hide the cat even better.
The following days turned into a bizarre covert operation. Emma slipped Misty into the wardrobe whenever Margarets steps echoed down the hallway, fed her only at dawn or late evening when Margaret vanished to the corner shop, and tucked the litter box into the farthest corner behind an old suitcase.
Misty seemed to understand. She never meowed, perched silently on the windowsill, watching the world with sorrowful green eyes, breathing so softly it seemed she might not be heard at all.
Youre clever, Emma whispered, stroking the warm grey back. Just a little longer. Everything will work out.
But nothing did.
Margaret prowled the flat with a face that looked betrayed, sniffing corners, pausing at Emmas door, listening intently. Emma froze, clutching Misty to her chest, heart hammering as if it might burst.
Lord, dont let her hear us, she thought.
The landlady lingered a moment longer, then left, the atmosphere thickening like a storm about to break.
At dinner, Margaret ate her soup in silence, eyes fixed on the bowl. Then, suddenly, she blurted:
You think Im a fool?
Emma choked on her tea.
I understand perfectly. You didnt throw the cat out. You hid it somewhere. You think I dont feel it?
Mrs. Hawthorne
No more! Margaret snapped upright, voice sharp. Dont lie to me. I warned you. But if youre so cunning, fine. No hair, no sound! And when my grandson arrives, make sure theres no cat spirit lingering!
She stormed off, leaving Emma bewildered.
A grandson?
The next day Margaret spoke of him in a dry tone, but Emma caught a flicker of something elseperhaps excitement, perhaps anxiety.
My grandson Ilya 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 lovely! Emma tried to sound upbeat. Youre missing him, I suppose?
Margaret grimaced.
Hes become a stranger, glued to his phone, barely speaking to me. He comes, sits for a week, then leaves. Every year the same. He doesnt care about me. As long as the internet works, thats all that matters. She paused, voice softening. And make sure your cat is gone. Understand?
Emma nodded, wondering how to hide a cat for a whole week.
Friday arrived with unsettling speed. Ilya entered the flat that eveningtall, angular, headphones glued to his ears, a grim expression. He gave a curt greeting, slipped into his room, and shut the door.
Margaret fussed about dinner, coaxing the boy to eat. He stared at his phone, muttering, I dont want it. She tried offering meatballs, but he refused. Emma, listening through the thin wall, felt her heart contract. Poor Margaret, trying so hard, while the boy ignored her entirely.
Misty perched on the windowsill, watching the darkness outside with mournful eyes.
Hold on, girl. Just a little longer, Emma whispered.
The next morning, Emma stepped into the bathroom for a minute, left the door ajar. Misty, perhaps curious or simply restless, wriggled through the crack and slipped into the hallway.
When Emma returned, the cat was gone. Panic surged, a cold sweat ran down her spine.
Misty! Misty! she called, darting into the corridor, only to freeze.
In the living room, Ilya sat on the floor, Misty curled in his lap, purring so loudly it sounded like a tractor starting up.
Oh, Emma breathed, relief flooding her.
Ilya looked up, a rare smile breaking across his face. Whose cat is this?
Its mine, Emma stammered, shifting from foot to foot. Im sorry, Ilya, she…
Can I pet her a bit more? he asked, voice childlike and delighted. Shes so soft!
Of course, Emma managed, torn between the looming storm of Margarets return and the innocent joy in the boys eyes.
Just then Margaret emerged from the kitchen, eyes widening at the scene. She froze, as if time had stopped.
Emma braced for an explosion.
Ilya, Margaret said quietly, are you playing with the cat?
Yes, Grandma! Look how she purrs! Can I feed her?
She stared at her grandson, then slowly nodded. Very well.
From that moment everything shifted.
Ilya 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 he wanted a cat of his own someday.
Margaret sat at the kitchen table, listening, and for the first time a warmth flickered in her eyes. One evening she approached Emma.
Let her stay, she whispered. Misty. Let her stay. The house feels a little brighter with her.
A single tear traced down Margarets cheek.
Three months passed. Ilya called every evening, not his parents but his grandmother, asking to see Misty on video. Margaret fumbled with the phone, cursing the stubborn gadget.
Bloody thing! Ilya, can you see her?
I see you, Grandma! Hello, Misty! the cat would meow back, as the screen lit up with her green eyes.
Will you be back for the spring break? Ilya asked.
Of course, love. Well be waiting, Margaret replied, already eyeing a feathertoy shed bought at the local shop.
Emma no longer hid in shadows. She cooked alongside Margaret, shared tea, and spoke of her late husband, of how lonely the world had seemed after his death.
Honestly, Margaret, Emma said, if it werent for Misty, I dont know how Id have made it.
Margaret nodded, understanding. Animals sense our sorrow. They come when were low, without words.
Soon the two women, once strangers, became almost friendstwo solitary souls bound by circumstance and a modest grey cat.
When spring arrived, Ilya returned, backpack bulging with gifts: cat food, a new collar with a tiny bell, a soft cushion.
Grandma, I bought all this myself! he declared proudly.
Good on you, lad, Margaret replied, hugging him.
Ilya spent the week with Misty, drawing, wandering the garden, and before leaving said, Grandma, can I stay here for the summer? Longer?
Of course you can, Margaret answered, embracing him, realizing that happiness lay not in quiet or order, but in the bustling, noisy, loving chaos of a childs laughter and the soft rumble of paws on the floor.
All because of one unassuming grey cat.
