When I'm on tour or even just traveling for album promotion, like I am now, I spend most nights tucked into hotel rooms or backstage. But tonight I decided to go for a small walk before bed. It's about 10pm, and the streets aren't very busy, which I'm grateful for. It's nice to have even just a little bit of time to myself. It's peaceful.

I’m halfway down a narrow alley when I hear a soft meow that cuts through the silence. I pause, my brows furrowing. I crouch down and squint as I scan the shadows. And there it is: a small striped cat, eyes wide with fear. I inhale at the sight. Poor thing. It doesn’t belong here.

“Hey, hey, don’t be scared, little one,” I mutter, extending a hand slowly. The cat flinches but doesn’t run. I get close enough and pick it up gently, pulling the small animal into my chest. It doesn't have a collar or anything, but it looks very well taken care of. Clean, a full stomach. It's clear this isn't a stray.

I can't resist taking my phone out and sending a quick photo to my mum, knowing she'd very much appreciate it.

I decide to start asking around. I show the little cat to people on the street, to the hotel concierge, to anyone who might recognize it and know it's owner. But then after what feels like forever (but is probably really only thirty minutes), I find a flyer taped to a lamp post that has a photo of this exact cat.

“Ah, I’ve found you,” I say under my breath, relief filling me. I look up the address and see it's a small townhouse just down a few blocks away. Little thing didn't get very far, thankfully.

It's a short walk, one that I spend talking to the cat in my arms, telling it that we're almost home.

As if it understands me.

I double check the numbers before climbing the front steps, ringing the doorbell carefully and adjusting the cat as it squirms around. Must recognize it.