Atop an old attic on the outskirts of the city, a nameless stray cat watches the world.
He can speak, but chooses not to.Instead, he silently observes the humans below, day after day, quietly contemplating the meaning of their lives.
His routine is always the same:Before dawn, he climbs onto the rooftop and watches.He only descends when hungry, to nibble on the food someone's left on the roadside.The rest of his day is spent atop the attic, gazing.
Humans baffled him.It had been five years since he began observing them, and yet he still didn't understand.
They laughed and cried, fought and embraced — sometimes within the same hour.Unlike himself, they didn't wander daily for food, yet they always seemed in a rush to go somewhere.
The newspaper man always came at the same hour, his face weary.The old man sat on the same bench, reading the paper, every day.A man in a suit drank silently, then vanished with a sigh.A child played with a ball alone, and left alone as dusk fell.The flower shop lady arranged fresh blooms daily, yet few bought them.
That day too, the cat sat atop the attic — when an ant approached.
"What do you do up here every day?" the ant asked.
"I watch humans," said the cat, curtly.
"Why? What's so interesting about them?"
"They're just… strange."
The ant tilted his head.
"We're born into roles," he said."Some of us carry food, others care for eggs, others defend the colony.There's no 'individual.' We are the colony."
He pointed to the old man on the bench below.
"But humans? They work alone, grow old alone, die alone.They live together but don't move together.That old man — he's always alone, isn't he?"
The ant paused, then added:
"We work until we die.But we never die alone.Humans boast of freedom —But if freedom means loneliness,I'd rather live in the duties of the group."
The cat said nothing. The ant quietly left.
"The ant does not waver.Within labor and order, it knows its place.There is no solitude there.But humans, in their freedom, scatter —and in scattering, grow lonely."
A pigeon landed on the attic's ledge.
"What're you staring at so hard?"
"Humans," said the cat.
"Bah. Useless. They're only kind when they have breadcrumbs."
The pigeon flexed its wings.
"There was a human once.Helped me when my wing was broken.Later, kicked me away, said I was filthy.Their affection? Situational.Trust? Transactional.Everything's weighed by benefit."
And off the pigeon flew.
"The pigeon is a realist.He believes not in affection.To him, emotions are conditions.Kindness is commerce.He avoids betrayal —But never knows trust."
A puppy bounced up, tail wagging.
"Hi! What're you doing?"
"Watching humans."
"Humans are the best! So nice!"
"They can hurt you too," said the cat. "Even when they love."
The puppy paused. Then smiled.
"I like them anyway.Not sure why.Just do. Isn't that enough?"
And he ran off toward his human.
"The puppy believes in unconditional love.It might be dangerous —but it draws out real emotions.Perhaps that's why humanslove dogs more than any pet:because they lost that purity themselves."
A butterfly drifted down on a breeze.
"Humans again? How dull."
"They change every day," the cat replied, "yet stay the same."
The butterfly laughed.
"We transform — larva, cocoon, butterfly.Three lives in one.Do humans truly change,in heart — not just in skin?"
And it vanished into the wind.
"The butterfly lives in fleeting moments,but only after layered metamorphosis.Humans live long lives,but remain in a single shell.Can they truly change —or do they live forever as larvae?"
A ragged crow perched nearby.
"Still watching those humans?"
The cat didn't respond.
"I used to believe in them too.But when a child cried,they blamed me, chased me off.Any excuse will do.Justify anything.That's their gift."
"I don't hope anymore.Don't smile.Don't help.Everyone moves for themselves.That's reality."
The crow shut his eyes and took flight.
"The crow hides in cynicism.To avoid betrayal, he no longer hopes.But the scar on his beakreveals what he once believed."
From behind a trash can, a rat peeked out.
"Looking for meaning?"
The cat nodded.
The rat snorted.
"I just live.No meaning.I hide, I bite, I survive.That's enough."
"Aren't you lonely?" the cat asked.
No reply. The rat disappeared into the dark.
"The rat lives by instinct.Philosophy is a luxurywhen hunger gnaws.He doesn't speak —but in silence lies truth."
A tomcat appeared in the alley.
"Long time."
The cat nodded.
"I am not chosen by anyone," said the stray."I choose myself.I belong to no one.I fit in no one's bowl.It's a hard life —But I know who I am."
He walked into the alley shadows.
"The stray cat is existence itself.No fence can contain his freedom.He is alone — but real."
Near a pond, a koi swam in circles.
"You think you're outside their world," it whispered."But you're in the same bowl."
"Humans, cats —you all believe in freedom.But it's all within current.Movement is permitted,but never free."
The koi disappeared beneath the water.
"The koi knows surrender.Whether it is peace or resignation,the cat does not know.But he still wants to swim upstream."
A turtle lifted its head from atop a stone.
"Change isn't always needed."
"Is it okay not to move?" asked the cat.
"Sometimes," said the turtle,"Only those who endure longestcan change the tide."
"The turtle is silent wisdom.A body that outlasts words,Eyes heavier than motion.It speaks without speaking."
Night fell. The cat returned to the attic.Wind tickled his whiskers.Humans vanished into their windows.
"I found no answers —But I listened.To the ant's order,The pigeon's logic,The puppy's trust,The butterfly's change,The crow's scar,The rat's silence,The stray's truth,The koi's current,The turtle's stillness."
"I still do not speak.But tomorrow, I will return.To think.Silently, endlessly —To reflect."