Get rid of the cats spirit or get out of the flat! the landlady shouted.
The room Emily had rented was small but bright. The furniture was old, but solid. The landlady, Margaret Hughes, warned her straight away:
Im a strict sort of person. I like order, cleanliness, quiet. If anythings wrong, tell me at oncedont keep it to yourself.
Emily nodded. All she wanted was a peaceful night, free from neighbour bickering and drunken shouts. After a string of rough rentals on the outskirts where the neighbours never shut up, this place seemed like heaven.
She moved in. Their first conversation was brief. Margaret turned out not to be cruel, just withdrawn, silent, with a permanent, bitter look in her eyesan oldfashioned grudge against the world, perhaps against people.
Emily tried not to intrude. She cooked early in the morning while Margaret still slept, slipped around quietly, barely turned the television on, and lived like a mouse.
Then Misty appeared.
The cat came on her own, or rather, she seemed to have been abandoned. Gray, skinny, with clever green eyes, she sat at the foot of the stairs, mewing plaintively, as if saying, Please, take me in. Emilys heart melted.
She carried the cat upstairs, fed her, gave her water, and tucked her into an old towel in a box. Misty curled into a ball, purred, and for the first time in months Emily felt something thaw inside her. Little one, my dear, she whispered.
Hiding the cat seemed easy. Margaret rarely entered Emilys room. Misty proved a quiet companionno scratching, no darting about, just purring and sleeping on the windowsill.
One evening, a cold voice cut through the hallway:
Emily Thompson!
Margarets tone was icecold; Emily jumped. She stepped into the corridor. Margaret stood in the doorway, face twisted, a tuft of gray fur clenched in her hand.
What is this? Whos that in your flat? Margaret snapped.
The cat
She screamed as if the creature were a snake or a rat. Her face flushed, her hands trembled.
I cant stand them! Dirt! Fur everywhere! The smell!
Its clean, you know.
Get rid of the cats spirit, or youll have to clear out!
Margaret turned and slammed the door shut. Emily sank onto the sofa, hands shaking. Misty padded over, nuzzled her feet, and let out a plaintive meow.
What are we going to do, my dear? Where will we go? Emily whispered, tears streaming down her cheeks. The thought of packing up, leaving everything behind, loomed heavy. She was too exhausted to walk away.
So Emily decided: as long as Margaret didnt force her out, she would stay. She would hide the cat better.
The next days became a covert operation, absurd and exhausting, but there was no other choice. Emily stashed Misty in the wardrobe whenever Margarets footsteps echoed down the hall. She fed her only in the early dawn or late evening, when Margaret went to the shop. The litter box was tucked into the farcorner behind an old suitcase.
Misty seemed to understand. She didnt meow, just sat silently on the windowsill, staring out with sad green eyes, breathing so softly you could barely hear her.
Youre my clever one, Emily cooed, stroking Mistys warm gray back. Just hang on a little longer. Everything will sort itself out.
But nothing sorted itself out.
Margaret patrolled the flat with a look of betrayal, sniffing every corner. One evening she lingered at Emilys door, listening. Emily froze, clutching Misty to her chest, heart pounding as if it might burst. She prayed Margaret wouldnt hear.
Margaret lingered a minute longer, then slipped away, leaving the apartment thick with tension. At dinner she ate her soup in silence, eyes never leaving her plate. Suddenly she slammed her spoon down.
You think Im a fool? she hissed.
Emily choked on her tea.
I get it. You didnt kick her out. Youve hidden her. You think I cant feel it? Margaret spat.
Dont Margaret snapped up from her chair, dont lie to me. I warned you. But if youre so clever, fine. No hair, no sound. And when my grandson arrivesno cat spirit, understand?
She stormed back to her room, leaving Emily bewildered.
Grandson?
The next day Margaret mentioned him dryly, but a tremor of anxiety slipped into her voice. Thomas will be here for the holidays. Hes twelve. His parents are always busy, so he stays with me. He arrives Friday.
Thats wonderful! Emily tried to sound upbeat. You must be looking forward to it.
Margarets face twisted. Hes become a stranger. Stuck to his phone, doesnt even talk to me. He comes, sits for a week, and leaves. Every year. A raw pain broke through her composure. But youre his grandma, isnt that right? He loves you!
Loves, Margaret snarled. He probably doesnt even notice me. As long as the WiFi works. She fell silent, then softer: And make sure your cats not here. Got it?
Emily nodded, wondering where to hide a cat for an entire week.
Friday came too quickly. Thomas arrived in the evening: a lanky, angular teen with headphones and a sullen expression. He muttered a greeting, slipped into his room, and shut the door.
Margaret bustled about, laying the table, urging him to eat. Thomas slumped into his chair, eyes glued to his phone.
Thomas, at least have a bite, Margaret pleaded.
I dont want to.
I made your favourite meatballs.
I said I dont want them! Thomas snapped.
Emily, tucked in her own room, heard everything through the thin wall. Her heart clenched for Margaret, who tried so hard while the boy ignored her. Misty perched on the windowsill, watching the darkness outside with mournful eyes.
Hold on, love, Emily murmured to herself. Just a little longer.
The next morning, an unexpected mishap unfolded. Emily stepped into the bathroom for a minute, leaving the bedroom door ajarthere was no lock. Perhaps Misty, bored or curious, slipped through the gap and slipped into the hallway.
When Emily returned, the cat was gone. Panic surged; cold sweat ran down her spine.
Misty! Misty! she cried, darting into the corridor. There, in the living room, Thomas sat on the floor, Misty curled in his lap, purring so loudly it sounded like a tractor starting up.
Oh, Emily breathed, stunned.
Thomas looked up, a smile breaking across his face for the first time since hed arrived. Whose cat is this?
Myuhmine, Emily stammered, cheeks flushing. Sorry, Tom, she just wandered in.
Can I pet her a bit more? his voice turned childlike, delighted. Shes so soft!
Sure, Emily replied, unsure. On one hand Margaret would burst into a rage; on the other, Thomass eyes shone with genuine happiness.
Just then Margaret emerged from the kitchen, stopped dead in the doorway, and stared at the scene. Emily braced herself for an explosion.
Tom, Margaret said quietly, what are you doing with the cat?
Grandma, look how shes purring! Can I feed her? he begged, eyes bright.
Margaret hesitated, then gave a slow nod. Fine. You can.
From that moment everything shifted. Thomas never left Mistys sidefeeding her, playing, even sketching her with a pencil. He abandoned his phone, laughed, and talked to Margaret about school, friends, and his dream of having a cat of his own.
Margaret, seated at the kitchen table, watched her grandson and felt a warmth she hadnt known for years. One evening she approached Emily.
Let her stay, she whispered. Misty brings a bit of joy to this house.
A single tear slipped down Margarets cheek.
Three months passed. Thomas called every evening, not his parents but Margaret, asking to see Misty on video. Margaret fumbled with the terrible old webcam, cursing the technology.
Can you see her? Thomas asked.
Yes, Grandma! Hi, Misty! he cheered. The cat, hearing his familiar voice, padded closer, mewing softly.
Will you be here for the spring break? Thomas asked.
Absolutely, love. Well be waiting with Misty.
Margaret even bought a feather wand for the cat at the local shop, hoping Thomas would enjoy it.
Emily no longer hid in shadows. She cooked with Margaret, shared tea, and opened up about her late husband, how lonely she felt after his death.
You know, Margaret, without Misty I dont think I could have made it, Emily admitted.
Margaret nodded, understanding. Animals sense our pain. They come when we need them, without saying a word.
The two women, once strangers, became close friendstwo lonely souls bound by fate and a modest grey cat.
When spring arrived, Thomas returned, backpack brimming with gifts: cat food, a new bellcollar, a soft bed.
Grandma, I bought all this myself! he announced proudly.
Good lad, Margaret praised.
Thomas spent a week with Misty, playing in the garden, drawing, and before he left, asked, Can I come back for the summer?
Of course, Margaret replied, hugging him tightly. She realized happiness wasnt in silence or order, but in these embraces, in a childs laughter, in the patter of tiny paws across the hallway.
All because of an unassuming grey cat.
