Chapter 1: The Window
Whisker had never meant to become extraordinary.
He was, by all reasonable standards, an ordinary gray tabby with white paws and a crooked whisker on the left side of his face—the one that gave him his name. He lived on the third floor of a narrow brick building where the windows rattled when buses passed and the radiator hissed like a rival cat.
His human, Clara, believed he was afraid of the outside world.
She was wrong.
Whisker was not afraid.
He was waiting.
Every afternoon, he sat at the window and watched the alley below. He studied the pigeons with their nervous steps, the stray dog who passed at noon like clockwork, and the orange cat who balanced along the fence like a flame refusing to be contained.
The orange cat had a scar across one eye.
The orange cat was not waiting.
One evening, as rain polished the pavement into liquid silver, Whisker saw something different. The orange cat wasn't on the fence. Instead, he was on the fire escape, staring directly at Whisker.
Their eyes locked.
The orange cat tilted his head once—as if asking a question.
Whisker's tail flicked.
The question was simple.
Are you coming?
That night, when Clara forgot to latch the kitchen window after watering her herbs, Whisker made a decision.
He did not hesitate.
He climbed into the rain.