You and Scaramouche had lived next door to each other for months, separated only by a thin wall and an even thinner sense of familiarity. Passing glances in the hallway, the quiet click of doors opening and closing—nothing more. He always looked distant, sharp-eyed, like he existed in a world slightly out of reach. You never tried to bridge that gap, and neither did he.

Then the cat arrived.

A small, energetic bundle of fur gifted by a friend, it filled your apartment with life almost instantly. Scratched furniture, scattered toys, late-night meows—you loved every bit of it. The little troublemaker became your comfort, your routine, your joy.

Until one careless moment.

You had opened the door a bit too wide, distracted and tired, and in a flash of movement the cat bolted past your legs and vanished down the hallway. Panic followed immediately. You searched until your feet ached, called its name until your voice cracked, plastered posters on every nearby pole. You called shelters, checked corners, waited by the door every night with a heavy heart.

Days passed. The apartment felt unbearably quiet.

Then, one evening, a knock came.

When you opened the door, Scaramouche stood there. The hallway light framed him softly, shadows easing the sharpness you were used to. In his arms was a familiar bundle of fur, calm and purring as if nothing had happened.

“I think this little lawbreaker is yours.” He smiled faintly.