Ava Lee hated mornings.
They always came the same way the alarm screaming like a dying robot, the sunlight stabbing through half-closed blinds, and the faint sound of her upstairs neighbor doing aerobics at 6:00 a.m. sharp. She'd hit snooze three times, drag herself out of bed, and stare blankly at the mirror for five full seconds before muttering,
"Another day in paradise."
Her reflection didn't argue.
The apartment was small, the kind people online politely called minimalistic. A couch with a coffee stain shaped like Australia, a kitchen counter cluttered with instant noodle cups, and a refrigerator that hummed louder than her will to live.
Ava threw on her usual office outfit white blouse, black skirt, cardigan that had seen better days and tied her hair into a messy bun that looked more accidental than stylish. She checked the clock: 7:32 a.m. Late again.
By the time she reached the subway station, the city was already awake and angry. Horns blared, people shouted into phones, someone spilled coffee, and a child was crying somewhere behind her. The smell of roasted beans and car fumes filled the air like an urban perfume.
She squeezed into the train, clinging to the metal pole as the doors closed behind her. A teenager next to her was blasting K-pop through cheap earbuds. Across from her, a man in a suit snored softly, phone still open on a spreadsheet.
Same people. Same smells. Same everything.
Ava tilted her head against the glass and watched the tunnels blur by. Her mind drifted as it often did to somewhere far away.
When she was little, she used to imagine secret worlds hiding in plain sight: talking animals, time portals in closets, a sky where the stars whispered names. She'd draw them in sketchbooks and hide them under her bed.
Now those sketchbooks were gone. Replaced by tax forms and unpaid electricity bills.
By the time she reached the office, her smile was as forced as the company's motivational posters.
"Morning, Ava!" Mina Park chirped from across the cubicle wall, voice bright enough to cause dental damage. "You look half-dead. Again."
Ava plopped into her chair and turned on her computer. "That's because I'm half-dead. It's my natural state."
Mina laughed, spinning in her chair. "Come on! We have that meeting with Mr. Han in ten minutes. You better have your report ready before he gives us that death stare again."
"Mr. Han's stare could kill plants," Ava muttered.
"Please, the man probably waters them with tears of interns."
They both giggled until Jason Choi, their coworker, walked by carrying two cups of coffee. He placed one on Mina's desk without looking at her and said, "You owe me two bucks."
Then he turned to Ava, paused for a second, and said, "You look… tired."
Ava blinked. "Thanks. That's just my face."
Jason's lips curved slightly not quite a smile, but close enough. "Drink water," he said before walking off.
Mina leaned closer, whispering dramatically, "He likes you."
Ava rolled her eyes. "He likes making spreadsheets."
"Same thing," Mina whispered.
Hours passed in a blur of typing, fake laughter, and the constant hum of printers. By the time the clock struck 6:00 p.m., Ava's brain felt like mashed potatoes.
She waved goodbye to Mina, ignored Jason's teasing "Don't miss the last train," and trudged back home.
The city looked different at night same noise, but lonelier somehow. She stopped by a convenience store, bought a cup of ramen and a can of peach soda, then climbed the stairs to her apartment. Her feet hurt. Her soul hurt more.
She unlocked the door, kicked off her shoes, and dropped her bag on the floor.
The apartment was dark, quiet exactly how she liked it.
Until it wasn't.
Something moved.
A faint sound the light tap of claws against wood echoed from the kitchen.
Ava froze. Her keys slipped from her hand and clattered to the floor.
"…Hello?" she said, her voice barely a whisper.
Silence.
Then a flick of a tail.
There, sitting calmly on her dining table, was a black cat. Its fur gleamed like spilled ink under the dim light, and its eyes silver-gray and unnervingly sharp stared straight at her.
Ava blinked once. Twice.
"Wh… what the hell?"
The cat tilted its head, as if unimpressed.
"Shoo!" she waved her arms. "Go away! How did you even get in here?"
The cat didn't move. Its gaze followed her every motion, too intelligent, too focused.
Ava grabbed a magazine and waved it like a sword. "I'm serious! Get off my table!"
The cat blinked slowly. Then, without warning, it opened its mouth and said
"You're late."
Ava screamed.
Loud.
Long.
So loud that if the walls had ears, they'd have filed a noise complaint.
The magazine fell from her hand as she stumbled backward, hitting the counter.
"Y–You TALKED!"
The cat stretched lazily, tail flicking. "Technically, I spoke. There's a difference."
Ava's vision spun. "No. Nope. I'm hallucinating. This is stress. I need sleep"
"Or therapy," the cat said.
Her breath came fast. "Cats don't talk!"
"Neither do most humans," it muttered.
Ava's eyes rolled back as her knees gave out, the world dimming into blackness. The last thing she heard was the cat sighing.
"Humans. Always fainting."
When Ava woke up, the first thing she saw was the ceiling.
The second thing was… fur.
Black fur.
Her heart stopped for a beat.
For a long, dazed moment, she just lay there on the floor, blinking at the faint morning light sneaking through the curtains. Her head throbbed, her mouth was dry, and a fuzzy memory of talking cats tried to make its way through the fog of her brain.
Then came the sound a soft purring.
Her eyes snapped to the couch.
There, curled comfortably on her favorite blanket like he owned the place, was the same black cat. Sleeping. Peacefully. Breathing like a tiny engine.
Ava stared.
Then whispered to herself, "It's still here… oh my God, it's still here."
She sat up slowly, rubbing the back of her neck. The room was quiet except for the hum of the refrigerator and the rhythmic purrs.
"Okay," she muttered. "This is fine. This is totally fine. I didn't just have a mental breakdown. I… adopted a cat in my sleep? Yeah, sure. People do weird things under stress."
She stood, legs trembling slightly, and tiptoed toward the couch. The cat's fur gleamed like polished obsidian. Up close, it looked normal a normal, beautiful, possibly expensive stray.
"Right," she whispered. "You're cute. You're quiet. You're definitely not possessed. Perfect."
She leaned closer, inspecting its tiny nose.
Then the cat's eyes opened bright gray, calm, ancient.
Ava froze mid-breath.
"Good morning," the cat said, voice smooth as velvet. "You fainted. Not very polite, by the way."
Ava yelped and fell backward onto the floor again.
For a few seconds, neither of them spoke. The cat simply sat there, tail flicking lazily, while Ava's brain tried to reboot.
"I… I'm dreaming," she stammered. "This isn't real. Talking cats aren't real!"
"Define 'real,'" the cat replied.
"Real is" she waved her hands wildly. "not THIS! Not some Disney fever dream in my apartment!"
The cat stretched, completely unfazed. "Then consider me your dream's resident tenant."
Ava covered her face with both hands. "Oh, God. I hit my head too hard, didn't I? I'm probably in a coma. This is coma-land."
"Coma-land has better furniture," the cat said dryly.
She peeked through her fingers. "You're still talking."
"Yes."
"Stop."
"No."
"PLEASE stop."
"No."
Ava groaned into her palms. "I'm arguing with a cat. My therapist would be so proud."
The cat leapt down from the couch, landing soundlessly beside her. Its eyes caught the light like silver coins.
"Look, human," it said, pacing in slow, deliberate steps, "I don't particularly enjoy repeating myself. So, let's establish some basic civility. You can stop screaming every time I speak, and I, in return, will not claw your curtains."
Ava stared, mouth half open. "Civility? You broke into my house!"
"Technically," the cat said, pausing to lick its paw, "I materialized. Details matter."
"Materialized?! From where?!"
The cat's gaze flickered toward the window, distant for a moment. "Would you believe me if I said… somewhere very old?"
Ava blinked. "…No."
"Good. I'd rather not explain it anyway."
She pushed herself up to sit, crossing her arms. "Okay, let's say I believe you're… whatever this is. What do you want from me?"
The cat looked straight at her. "Food. Warmth. Maybe your Wi-Fi password."
Ava gaped. "Excuse me?"
"You humans worship connectivity. I'd like to see what all the fuss is about."
"That's not cats don't you're insane!"
"Better insane than ordinary," the cat replied, then padded toward the kitchen table, jumping gracefully onto it.
Ava followed, watching in disbelief as the cat sniffed the can of peach soda she'd left unopened last night.
"Do not"
The cat nudged the can with a paw.
It tipped.
Fizz exploded across the table.
Ava screamed. "HEY!"
The cat blinked at the mess, then calmly said, "Not a fan."
"That was my dinner, you...you furry demon!"
"Apologies. I thought it was a potion."
"Potion?! It's soda!"
The cat tilted its head. "Soda. Potion. Fermented sugar liquid. Same principle."
Ava groaned and grabbed paper towels. "You're unbelievable."
"I've been called worse."
"Like what?"
"Cursed. Damned. Bewitched. Take your pick."
Her hands froze mid-wipe. "What did you just say?"
The cat looked at her, expression unreadable. "Cursed. But that's a story for another day."
The room fell quiet again. The only sound was the dripping soda sliding off the edge of the table.
Something in the way he said it calm, final, old made a chill crawl up her spine.
After cleaning the mess, Ava retreated to the living room and sat as far away from the cat as possible. She held her knees close and stared at him like one might stare at a very polite bomb.
The cat sat on the armrest, tail swaying, eyes half-closed. He looked too serene, too composed like a being that didn't belong in her ordinary, gray world.
"Why me?" she muttered finally. "Out of all apartments, why mine?"
"Because you opened the door," the cat said simply.
"I didn't!"
"You did, metaphorically."
Ava threw her hands in the air. "That doesn't make sense!"
"It rarely does, until it's too late."
"What's too late supposed to mean?"
The cat gave a low, almost human sigh. "You ask too many questions for someone who just fainted."
Hours passed.
Ava refused to sleep she sat on the couch, clutching a blanket and eyeing the cat like a paranoid roommate. He, on the other hand, seemed perfectly content, grooming himself and occasionally glancing her way with an almost amused look.
By midnight, exhaustion finally won. She drifted off, still muttering under her breath:
"If this is a dream, I better wake up with a raise…"
The cat watched her for a long while, expression softening. His eyes glowed faintly in the dark silver, ancient, thoughtful.
He whispered to himself, voice barely audible,
"Another thousand years… and still, she finds me first."
Ava woke to the sound of purring.
Soft. Rhythmic. Too close.
Her eyes opened slowly, adjusting to the pale morning light that spilled through the curtains. For one glorious second, she forgot everything the talking cat, the spilled soda, the fainting. Then she felt something heavy resting on her chest.
She looked down.
Two silver eyes blinked back at her.
"Good morning," said Noir.
Ava screamed. Again.
The cat didn't even flinch. He simply yawned, stretched across her blanket, and added, "Do you start every day like this? I'll need earplugs."
She pushed him off and sat upright, clutching her pillow like a weapon. "Why are you on me?!"
"You're warm," he said simply. "Also, you talk in your sleep. Quite entertaining, really."
Her face burned. "What...what did I say?"
"'Don't touch the noodles, they're magical,'" Noir recited with perfect clarity.
Ava groaned, burying her face in the pillow. "Kill me."
"Tempting," the cat mused, "but I'm rather fond of my current living arrangement."
Ten minutes later, Ava was pacing the kitchen, muttering to herself while Noir sat on the counter, watching her make coffee like an art critic observing a disaster.
"Okay," she said, more to the ceiling than to him. "Let's think logically. You're a talking cat. That's impossible. Therefore, you're… not real."
"I'm quite tangible," Noir replied, flicking his tail.
"Or I'm losing my mind."
"Statistically probable."
"Or you're some kind of government experiment gone wrong!"
"Ah, yes," he said dryly, "the CIA's top-secret Talking Cat Initiative. They needed someone to meow classified information."
Ava glared. "You're really not helping."
"I'm not trying to."
She poured coffee into a mug that said Monday Kills Me Slowly, then sank onto a chair. "What am I supposed to do with you?"
"Feed me," he said instantly.
"Feed you?! You broke into my home!"
"I materialized, remember?"
"Materialized my" She stopped herself before swearing at a cat. "Do you even eat normal food?"
"Salmon. Preferably smoked. And warm milk if you're feeling generous."
Ava blinked. "You have taste."
"I had centuries to develop it."
Her brow furrowed. "Centuries?"
Noir froze for half a second just enough for her to notice. Then he jumped down from the counter with a grace too precise for any ordinary feline.
"Figure of speech," he said, walking away.
But Ava wasn't convinced. Something in the way he moved, the way he spoke like every word carried dust from another lifetime made her chest tighten with a strange curiosity.
She followed him with her eyes as he settled on the windowsill, gazing out at the gray morning cityscape.
"Who are you, really?" she asked quietly.
For a moment, he didn't answer. The light caught his fur, turning it from black to the faintest shade of violet. Then, softly:
"I'm someone who's been many things. None of them by choice."
Ava's breath hitched. "That's… cryptic."
"Better than tragic," Noir said.
He turned his head then, those silver eyes locking onto hers calm, steady, and much too human. She felt a tiny, inexplicable shiver down her spine.
"You'll understand soon enough," he added. "But not today."
Ava frowned. "You sound like every fortune cookie I've ever read."
"I'm wiser than most of them."
"You're insufferable."
"And yet," Noir purred, "you haven't kicked me out."
She opened her mouth to retort, then closed it. He was right. She could have thrown him out last night. She could call animal control. She could… do anything, really. But she didn't.
Why?
Maybe it was the way he spoke calm but aching, like someone who'd seen too much. Or maybe, just maybe, she was tired of her empty apartment, her empty routine, her empty silence.
Even if this cat was a hallucination, at least he made her feel something.
Her phone buzzed. A message from Mina.
MINA: Morning sunshine ☀️ Don't forget we have a 9 a.m. meeting!
Also, are you alive?
Ava sighed. Barely.
She typed back a short reply, then glanced at Noir. "You stay put, okay? Don't break anything."
"I make no promises."
"I mean it, don't"
She stopped. Noir was already grooming his paw like a perfectly innocent pet.
Ava narrowed her eyes. "You're planning something."
He smiled or at least, his whiskers twitched in a very smug way. "I always am."
Half an hour later, Ava left for work, still muttering to herself about sanity and feline trespassers. Noir watched her go from the window, tail flicking gently.
The moment the door shut, his expression changed.
The playful arrogance faded, replaced by something older, heavier.
He turned toward the faint reflection of himself in the glass.
For an instant, the reflection didn't match instead of a cat, the window showed the outline of a man: tall, dark-haired, wearing old-fashioned clothes. His eyes glowed the same silver.
Noir blinked, and the image vanished.
He sighed. "A thousand years," he murmured. "And still, she remembers nothing."
Outside, the city roared to life car horns, chatter, the clatter of footsteps. The world moved on, oblivious.
Inside that small apartment, a curse stirred awake once more.