I once loved a cat. She was a stray, and she came by in the early mornings or the mid-afternoon to sleep on the carpet outside my office door. She had the softest fur and a golden sheen. I would leave a little warm milk for her, and she would purr softly in the sunshine.
I can’t explain it, but I felt I knew her somehow. Her eyes, cloud blue, stared into mine, storm grey, with a deep wisdom and knowing warmth.
I could always tell when she was about to come by my flat. The wind chimes would shake with an added weight that was ever so slight. The sun would shine a little brighter, and the air was sweeter, fresher.
Once, I was having my afternoon tea and she came by. She looked back at me, a glint in her eyes—and then, it happened. Wings folded out of her fur, they stretched and pumped their rhythm, beating, and she soared into the air.
I never saw her again after that afternoon.
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