The sun was kind those days.

  Three windless days in a row.

  That kind of weather was rare in the capital—

  the flowers bloomed early,

  and it felt like spring had arrived ahead of schedule.

  The streets grew lively again.

  General stores set out jars of sweets.

  Children played marbles at the alley corners.

  Old folks sat out in the sun.

  New slogans hung along both sides of the avenue—

  not commands, but soft encouragement:

  “The front holds firm. Peace continues.”

  “Thanks to every returning warrior.”

  I saw soldiers taking off their cloaks.

  They walked the streets not in ranks, but in small groups, chatting and eating as they strolled.

  A few practiced swordwork in the plaza, drawing a crowd of children.

  The kids mimicked them, swinging sticks at each other.

  No one said it was improper.

  I didn’t either.

  I, too, had started walking slower.

  The day I reached the main bridge,

  a vendor insisted on handing me a bowl of sweet soup.

  “To bless your long life,” he said.

  I took it with a smile,

  not saying that I’d long since stopped enjoying anything that sweet.

  I stood at the bridgehead, sipping.

  The breeze passed my ear.

  Ice still clung to the river’s edge.

  People washed clothes on the banks, white sheets flying in the wind—

  for a moment, one sheet rose like a flag, blocking my view of the far side.

  When it settled,

  I saw the cat.

  It stood at the mouth of a street across the river.

  Tail low, body still.

  Its pitch-black fur was ruffled by the wind,

  but the cat itself didn’t move—like a statue.

  The same one I’d seen before.

  Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

  Not because of the color,

  but because of that feeling—

  that “you shouldn’t be here” kind of presence.

  People passed it by.

  Children ran past.

  A wagon splashed water nearby.

  It didn’t flee.

  Didn’t flinch.

  It just looked at me.

  Not like an animal.

  Not with fear, nor affection.

  It was... assessing me.

  Like it was another trap.

  I handed the soup to the soldier beside me.

  “Finish it for me,” I said.

  He replied, “Yes, sir.”

  I walked off the bridge, pushing through the crowd,

  heading toward the cat.

  It didn’t run.

  It took one step back,

  then turned into an alley.

  I followed.

  The alley was short—three steps to the end.

  The cat was gone.

  Only a new line had been etched into the stone,

  thin and sharp, circling the wall’s base.

  I stood staring at the mark.

  “Alchemist,” I called.

  He arrived quickly, tools in hand.

  Upon seeing the line, he knelt to collect a sample.

  “Same frequency,” he said.

  “They’re still testing us,” I replied.

  He nodded.

  “Or sending signals.”

  I looked to the wall’s edge.

  Nothing suspicious.

  Just a faint pile of gray dust—like the ash from burned paper.

  I didn’t laugh.

  I didn’t draw my sword.

  But I memorized its scent.

  This time, I only said:

  “It won’t leave so easily next time.”

  When we returned to the bridge,

  the people were still dancing.

  A soldier whistled by the riverbank,

  banging a pot lid and spoon for rhythm.

  Children spun and clapped.

  Even the old candy-seller was clapping along.

  I stood there at the bridgehead,

  watching as if nothing had happened.

  But I knew—

  That cat would come back.

  And I had remembered its shadow.