London sat on the curb, her legs dangling over the edge as the evening sun dipped low. The sky was streaked in pink and orange, but she was busy scribbling in her worn notebook. Her green eye flicked between the page and the flickering streetlamp above.

It had been blinking on and off for the last ten minutes—just like the last three she’d walked past.

She bit her lip, sketching a little symbol that had popped into her mind: two circles overlapping, with a jagged line through the middle. She didn’t know what it meant, but the urge to draw it was too strong to ignore.

A gust of wind rustled the paper, and she glanced up. Across the street, a cat sat staring at her. Its eyes glowed faintly in the dim light, tail flicking lazily. London blinked, and for half a second—just half a second—the cat had two tails.

She blinked again. Back to normal.

"...Okay." She wrote two tails? in the margin.

The cat meowed, but it sounded distant, like an echo through water.

London tilted her head. "You're not supposed to do that," she whispered.

The cat's ears twitched.

She jotted down another note: Things that aren't supposed to happen still happen.

It was happening more lately—little slips in reality. Sometimes she'd see people flicker, like they existed in two places at once. Other times, she'd find things in her pockets she didn't remember picking up—keys to doors she’d never seen, buttons from coats she didn’t own.