The house held a hush that felt colder than the frost clinging to the windowpanes.
Pale winter light spilled into the kitchen, catching on motes of dust that floated silently through the air. The heater hummed faintly, a low drone behind the clink of a spoon in a ceramic bowl. No music. No voices. Just the quiet choreography of a morning beginning without rhythm.
Moore sat at the kitchen table, hunched slightly over his untouched breakfast. Steam curled up from his mug but he didn't drink. His eyes weren't focused on anything in particular—just somewhere past the window, where the rooftops shimmered silver in the early frost. His coat was already on, the collar raised like a wall between him and the room.
Across from him, Ronell stirred her tea. Slowly. Absentmindedly.
Their mother moved through the space softly, the kind of presence that tried not to press. She placed a piece of toast on Moore's plate with a gentle hand, brushing a crumb from his shoulder. He didn't react—not out of coldness, but out of habit. The kind where stillness became a form of preservation.
Ronell glanced up briefly. Their eyes didn't meet.
The clock ticked.
When Moore stood, the scrape of the chair legs felt loud in the quiet. He didn't say anything—not goodbye, not even a mumbled acknowledgment. He just pulled on his gloves and walked to the door.
The moment before he stepped out, their mother said gently, "It's cold out. Be careful."
Moore paused. Not long enough to answer, but just long enough for the words to land. Then he opened the door.
Frosted air slipped inside for just a breath, curling around Ronell's ankles before it was gone again.
She turned her head as the door clicked shut, catching a glimpse of him through the narrow front window—shoulders drawn tight, breath blooming in the air like a ghost that wouldn't speak. His coat flared slightly behind him as he walked toward the street, boots crunching the thin layer of ice on the driveway.
She didn't know why it felt like something inside her tugged.
Maybe it was the silence he left behind. Or maybe it was the way the frost had crept up the glass, tracing delicate, branching patterns like something that grew when warmth wasn't around to stop it.
She didn't speak either. But her spoon stilled in her tea.
And somewhere, in the hush of that winter morning, something ached.
---
The school bell rang somewhere in the distance.
Moore wasn't there to hear it.
His boots left a quiet trail through the snow, muffled prints vanishing under new flurries that drifted down from the gray-stretched sky. Wind whispered between the trees, rattling brittle branches like bones — but he didn't flinch. He was used to silence. Today, he welcomed it.
His breath came slow and even, forming little clouds in the air. His hands were buried deep in his pockets. His hood was down, hair dusted with frost. He didn't know why his feet led him back here. The world felt numb, white and cold and quiet.
And yet — she was there.
That cat.
Perched beneath the tree, tail curled around her small frame. Her fur caught the light in shades of ink and snow. She didn't move as he approached. Didn't blink.
Moore stared at her. The stillness. The presence.
He didn't say anything. Just sat.
The ground was cold through his coat, but he didn't mind. Something about being here made the silence feel less empty.
The cat blinked.
Then—
A shimmer. Like heat through glass, only colder. A distortion of air. A flicker of something unseen by anyone else.
And then she was gone.
Not gone. Changed.
Where the cat had been now sat a girl.
She sat the same way — poised, unmoving — knees drawn up slightly, black coat dusted with snow. Her hair fell long and straight to her waist, so dark it shimmered with deep red undertones when the light touched it. And her eyes…
Not yellow.
Dark. Deep brown, with a flush of reddish warmth.
Alive.
Moore's breath caught — his entire body froze for a beat too long.
She was…
Pretty.
Not in the way books described it. Not in the way his classmates whispered about crushes. It was something stranger. More unsettling. Like the hush before a thunderstorm. He hadn't expected this — her — to feel like this.
The girl looked at him.
Not smiling. Not soft.
Just… focused. Intense. Watching him like he was the only thing in the world that mattered.
He parted his lips to speak, but—
"You finally see me."
Her voice was soft, cold, and unshakably sure. Like falling snow that didn't need to rush.
Moore blinked, unsure whether to speak, to look away, to run. His heart had climbed up into his throat without warning. It wasn't fear. Not exactly.
"What… are you?"
Her eyes softened, almost imperceptibly. But her expression didn't change much.
"I've been here the whole time," she said simply.
Moore frowned, brows knitting. "That doesn't answer the question."
"No," she said, tilting her head slightly. "It doesn't."
They stared at each other. The wind stirred her hair slightly, sending thin strands lifting with the frost. She didn't flinch. Didn't move. She had the presence of someone ancient, someone patient — and yet, beneath it, something young flickered in her expression.
Uncertainty?
No. Caution.
He didn't know what to say.
And then—just barely—he blushed. Heat touched his cheeks and ears, unwelcome but undeniable.
She noticed.
A single brow lifted, curious. Almost amused.
"You're not afraid," she said.
Moore hesitated. "…Should I be?"
Her expression didn't shift. "Maybe."
That was all she gave him. All she was willing to share.
Then she stood. No dramatic exit. No grand finale.
She turned — quiet as the wind — and walked away. Each step soundless, leaving no imprint in the snow behind her.
Moore didn't follow.
Didn't speak.
Just sat there under the tree, staring at the space she had left behind.
His heart still hadn't slowed. His hands were cold, his breath short. But the world — felt different.
A black cat had followed him for weeks. Now it had a voice. A gaze that felt like it saw too much.
And yet, somehow, he didn't feel alone anymore.
---
The house was quiet when he returned — a different kind of quiet than the one he'd wandered through earlier. This one was warmer, lit by the golden hum of ceiling lights and the faint scent of something sweet cooling on the kitchen counter. A candle flickered somewhere, casting soft shadows across the hall.
Ronell stood in the doorway.
Arms crossed. Her coat still on. Boots by her feet. She hadn't gone far, hadn't sat down. She'd been waiting.
Her gaze met his the second the door opened. Not harsh. Not scolding. Just…
Confused.
"Where were you?" she asked, voice low. Not whispering — just careful.
Moore stepped inside, closing the door behind him. He didn't answer right away.
"I texted you." She tilted her head slightly. "You missed class."
He slipped off his coat and hung it by the door, snow melting off the fabric in soft, dark blotches. His movements were quiet, measured.
"I just needed air," he said, avoiding her eyes.
Ronell frowned, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. "You've been distant again."
Still, Moore didn't answer.
She sighed, stepping aside as he walked past her, his boots soft against the wooden floor. He didn't head toward the kitchen or living room. Just straight to his door. Her gaze followed him the whole way.
He paused at the threshold to his room.
Something in him wanted to explain. To say something. But the words didn't come. Not without sounding hollow, rehearsed.
So instead, he simply said:
"Goodnight."
And closed the door.
Inside, the light stayed off. He dropped his bag onto the floor, peeled off his sweater, and stood in the dark a moment longer, waiting for the silence to settle again.
Then, slowly, he walked to the window.
He moved the curtain.
Snow still fell, slow and fine like sifted sugar. The rooftops were powdered white, the yard untouched.
And there — on the low stone wall bordering the garden — the cat sat.
Motionless. Watching.
Its yellow eyes glowed faintly in the night.
Moore didn't flinch this time. He just watched it back.
And for a moment — not even he could say how long — they simply stared at each other across the frostbitten dark.