Get rid of the cats spirit or clear out the flat! the landlady shrieks.
The flat that Emma has taken is small but bright. The furniture is old, but solid. The landlady, Margaret Hughes, warns her straight away:
Im a strict person. I like order, cleanliness, quiet. If anything is wrong, tell me at once, dont keep it to yourself.
Emma nods. All she wants is a peaceful night without neighbour squabbles or drunken shouting. After a series of rented rooms on the edge of town where the neighbours never gave her a moments peace, this place feels like heaven.
She settles in. Margaret proves not cruel, just withdrawn. Shes silent, and in her eyes there lingers a perpetual grievance against the world, against people, perhaps against life itself.
Emma does her best not to disturb. She cooks early in the morning while Margaret still sleeps. She moves quietly, barely turns on the television, and lives like a mouse.
Then Misty appears.
The cat comes on her own, or rather, she wags herself into the doorway. Shes a skinny grey with sharp green eyes, perched by the landing, whining plaintively as if to say, Please take me in.
Emma cant resist. She brings Misty upstairs, feeds her, gives her water, and tucks her into an old towel in a cardboard box. The cat curls up, purrs, and for the first time in months Emma feels something melt inside her.
Mistress, my dear, she whispers.
Hiding the cat seems easy. Margaret rarely enters Emmas room. And Misty proves a quiet creatureno scratching, no sprinting about, just purring on the windowsill.
One evening, a voice cuts through the hallway:
Emma! Margaret!
The landladys tone is icy; Emma startles. She steps into the corridor where Margaret stands by the door, face twisted, clutching a tuft of grey fur.
What is this? Whos that? Margaret snarls.
Its a cat, Emma stammers.
Margarets face reddens, her hands shake.
I cant stand them! Dirt! Fur everywhere! The smell! she yells.
Its clean, Emma protests weakly.
Get rid of the cats spirit, or clear out the flat! Margaret roars, then storms back into her room, slamming the door.
Emma collapses onto the sofa, trembling. Misty pads over, rubs against her legs, and lets out a plaintive meow.
What do we do now, my dear? Emma whispers, tears sliding down her cheeks. Where do we go?
She cant leave; shes too exhausted. So she decides: as long as Margaret doesnt force her out, shell stayand shell hide the cat even better.
The next days turn into a covert operation. Emma shoves Misty into the wardrobe whenever she hears Margarets footsteps. She feeds her only early in the morning or late at night when Margaret goes to the shop. She tucks the litter box into the far corner behind an old suitcase.
Misty seems to understand. She never mews, just perches silently on the windowsill, watching the world with sad green eyes. Sometimes Emma thinks the cat even breathes more carefully, trying not to give herself away.
Youre clever, love, Emma murmurs, stroking Mistys warm grey back. Just hold on a little longer. Everything will sort itself out.
But nothing improves. Margaret prowls the flat with a look of betrayal, sniffing every corner. One day she even stops at Emmas bedroom door, listening intently.
Emma freezes, clutching Misty to her chest. Her heart pounds as if it might burst.
Lord, please dont let her hear, she thinks.
Margaret lingers a minute longer, then leaves, but the air in the flat feels thick with tension.
At dinner Margaret sits silent, spooning soup without looking up. Then, suddenly:
You think Im a fool? she snaps.
Emma chokes on her tea.
I get it. You didnt kick her out. Youve hidden her somewhere. You think I cant feel it? Margaret hisses.
Dont she stands abruptly. Dont lie to me. I warned you. But if youre this clever, fine. No fur, no sound. And when my grandson arrivesno cat spirit!
She storms off, leaving Emma bewildered. Grandson?
The next day Margaret speaks of the grandson in a dry tone, but Emma hears a tremor of excitement, maybe anxiety.
My grandson Oliver is coming for the holidays. Hes twelve. His parents are always busy, so he stays with me. Hell be here on Friday.
Thats good! Emma tries to sound upbeat. You miss him, I suppose?
Margaret grimaces. I miss him, but hes a stranger now. Hes glued to his phone, barely talks to me. He comes, sits for a week, then goes. Every year the same.
Pain slices through her voice, genuine and deep.
But youre his grandmother! He loves you! Emma protests.
He might, Margaret mutters. He probably only cares about the internet. And make sure your cat is gone, understood?
Emma nods, already wondering where to stash the cat for a whole week.
Friday arrives too quickly. Oliver shows up in the eveningtall, lanky, earbuds in, a scowl on his face. He greets Margaret with a single word, retreats to his room, and shuts the door.
Margaret fusses, setting a table, urging him to eat. Oliver slumps at the table, eyes glued to his phone.
Oliver, have a bite, Margaret pleads.
I dont want, he mutters.
Just try the meatballs I made.
I said I dont want! he snaps.
Emma, listening through the thin wall, feels her heart tighten. Poor Margaret, trying so hard while her grandson ignores her.
Misty sits on the windowsill, watching the darkness outside, eyes glistening with melancholy.
Hold on, girl. Just a little longer, Emma whispers.
The next day, an unexpected thing happens. Emma steps into the bathroom for a minute, leaves the bedroom door ajartheres no lock. Misty, perhaps driven by curiosity, squeezes through the crack and darts into the hallway.
When Emma returns, the cat is gone. Panic spikes. Cold sweat runs down her spine.
Misty! Misty! she cries, sprinting into the hallway, only to stop dead.
In the middle of the living room, on the floor, sits Oliver, gently stroking Misty, who purrs loudly as if a engine has started.
Oh, Emma exhales.
Oliver looks up, surprised, then smileshis first smile since arriving.
Whose cat is this? he asks.
Its mine, Emma says, hopping from foot to foot. Sorry, its an accident.
Can I pet her a bit more? his voice is childlike, full of wonder. Shes so cuddly!
Sure, Emma replies, unsure. On one hand Margaret could burst in any second; on the other, Olivers eyes shine with delight.
Just then Margaret emerges from the kitchen, sees the scene, and freezes.
Emma braces for an explosion.
Oliver, Margaret says quietly, are you playing with the cat?
Yes, Grandma! Look how she purrs! Can I feed her?
She watches her grandson, then slowly nods. Alright.
From that moment everything shifts.
Oliver cant leave Mistys side. He feeds her, plays, even sketches her with a pencil. He puts his phone down, laughs, talks to Margaret about school, friends, and his dream of having a cat someday.
Margaret, sitting at the kitchen table, watches her grandson. For the first time a warm glow spreads across her face.
Later, she approaches Emma.
Let her stay, she whispers. Misty brings a little joy to the house.
A single tear rolls down Margarets cheek.
Three months pass. Oliver calls every evening, not his parents but Margaret, asking to see Misty on video call. Margaret fumbles with the phone, never quite catching the cat on screen, cursing the gadget.
Bloody thing! Oliver, can you see her?
I see you, Gran! Hi, Misty! he says, and the cat, hearing his voice, hops closer to the screen, meowing softly, as if she recognises him.
Grandma, Ill be back for the spring break, right? Oliver asks.
Sure thing, love. Well be waiting with Misty.
They really are waiting. Margaret has already bought a feathertipped cat wand at the local pet shop, thinking Oliver will love it.
Emma no longer hides in corners. She cooks with Margaret, shares tea, tells stories of her late husband, of how hard life was after his death.
Honestly, Margaret, if it werent for Misty, I dont know how Id have managed, Emma admits.
Margaret nods understandingly. Animals sense us. When were down, they come silently, no words needed.
They become almost friendstwo solitary women bound by circumstance and a little grey cat.
When spring arrives, Oliver returns with a massive backpack full of treats for Misty, a new collar with a tiny bell, and a soft cushion.
Gran, I bought everything myself, he declares proudly.
Good on you, love, Margaret says, hugging him.
Oliver spends the week with Mistyplaying, roaming the garden, sketching. Before he leaves, he asks, Gran, can I stay here for the summer? Longer?
Of course, Margaret replies.
She hugs him, feeling a happiness she never thought possiblenot in quiet order, but in the bustle of his laughter and the patter of tiny paws.
All because of an unassuming grey kitten.
