The air feels different now—heavier, slower. The flowers that once danced in the breeze now hang lower, their petals fading at the edges. The children are gone, their laughter replaced by the faint drone of distant traffic and the occasional bark of a dog.


A breeze ruffles his ivy, stirring the loose strands over his shoulders. He straightens them, his movements careful and precise. Plants don’t fidget.

“Summer’s nearly over,” says Jean. “You’ll have to find a new hobby soon. Maybe leaf collecting?”


He doesn’t answer. A school group files past, their bright uniforms flashing through the green. One of the boys kicks at a rock, sending it skittering across the path. He stares straight ahead, unnoticed, unmoving.


The first sign of it is a faint rustling behind him, the soft patter of paws on gravel. Before he has time to process it, something brushes against his back. He jerks forward, his hands gripping the rim of the pot, his breath catching.


“Steady there,” says Jean, amusement threading her voice. “You’ll blow your cover. Plants aren’t supposed to leap out their pots.”


He twists slightly, just enough to catch a glimpse of fur—brown and white, patchy, with a tail that flicks like a metronome. The cat circles lazily, brushing against him again before padding around to the bench beside him. Its green eyes gleam as it stops, staring at him.


Jean laughs. “You broke character. What will the critics say?”


The cat hops onto the bench, settling down with a small sigh, its paws tucked neatly under its chest. Its tail flicks once, brushing his sleeve. He keeps perfectly still, though his pulse races. The cat shifts slightly, resting its chin on the edge of the bench, eyes half-closed.


“Well, look at that,” says Jean. “It likes you.”


He doesn’t move, his gaze fixed on the horizon. The steady rhythm of the cat’s breathing blends with the rustling leaves and distant hum of life around him.


By the third day, the cat’s visits have become routine. It arrives, circles his pot, and leaps onto the bench beside him. It stretches once, a slow, languid movement, before curling up into a small ball. Its tail occasionally brushes against him, soft and unassuming.


Jean’s voice is lighter now. “I think he’s testing you. Building up to something.”


The cat doesn’t always stay quiet. When a pigeon ventures too close, it springs into action, leaping down from the bench with a fierce hiss. Feathers scatter as the pigeon flaps away in a panicked flurry. The cat watches it go, tail twitching, before strutting back to the bench like a soldier returning from battle.


“Bold, isn’t he?” says Jean. “You could learn a thing or two.”


A sparrow makes the mistake of hopping onto the gravel path, and the cat narrows its eyes, its body low to the ground. It lunges, sending the bird fluttering into the safety of the trees. Satisfied, the cat returns, curling up once more, its tail flicking as if nothing happened.


He watches it out of the corner of his eye, careful not to break his stillness. He marvels at the cat’s boldness, a stark contrast to his own reluctance, stirring a mix of unease and quiet envy.


On the fifth day, the cat changes course. After its usual circle of the pot, it leaps not to the bench, but to his lap. He stiffens, his breath catching as the cat kneads at the folds of his blanket, then curls up, purring softly.


“Brave as ever,” Jean says, teasing. “He’s doing all the work, you know. You’re just sitting there like a lump.”


He doesn’t respond. He sits as still as he can, barely daring to breathe. The warmth of the cat spreads through the folds of his blanket, but he doesn’t move. His hands stay fixed on the rim of the pot, his gaze on the middle distance.


The cat shifts slightly, its tail draped over his arm, its purring a soft, steady rhythm. It chases away no more birds that day, its energy spent in the simple comfort of his lap.


The purring fills the quiet, blending with the rustling leaves. Above, the hornbeams’ edges are tinged with gold. The seasons are changing. He knows it, feels it. But here, with the cat curled on his lap, he stays still, rooted in the moment.