Management.
Marla hated the way people began speaking more softly around them.
James hated it too.
He continued fixing cabinet hinges while receiving chemotherapy.
Continued complaining about baseball.
Continued buying books he probably knew he would never finish.
He died eleven months after diagnosis.
Afterward, the house became unbearably quiet.
Marla left his shoes near the back door for almost four months.
Not because she believed he would come home.
Because removing them felt like making a decision she was not ready to make.
Theodore worried.
He called every evening.
Visited when work allowed.
Suggested counseling.
Marla attended twice.
It helped.
Not enough.
Nothing was supposed to be enough.
Then Theodore brought her a cat.
He arrived one Saturday carrying a plastic carrier.
Marla heard scratching from inside.
“No.”
She said before he entered.
“Mom.”
“No.”
“You haven’t even seen him.”
“I don’t want an animal.”
“You used to like cats.”
“I like horses too.”
“That doesn’t mean bring one into my kitchen.”
Theodore opened the carrier.
An orange tabby looked out.
Large amber eyes.
White around the chin.
Six years old, according to the shelter estimate.
He did not rush out.
He remained inside.
Watching.
Theodore lowered his voice.
“His name at the shelter was Winston.”
“He’s been there almost three weeks.”
Marla frowned.
“Why?”
“His owner died.”
That stopped her.
Theodore continued.
“They said he’s been withdrawn.”
“He eats.”
“He’s healthy.”
“But he mostly sits.”
Marla looked at the cat.
The cat looked at her.
Two creatures who had recently lost someone.
Theodore had clearly planned this symbolism.
Marla resented him for it.
“You think grief makes us compatible?”
“No.”
“I think loneliness might.”
She glared.
Theodore smiled weakly.
“I’m desperate.”
That made her laugh despite herself.
The cat stepped out.
He sniffed the rug.
Then walked directly toward James’s old armchair.
Marla’s smile disappeared.
Winston jumped onto it.
Turned twice.
Lay down.
She stared.
Theodore whispered:
“Well.”
Marla wiped one eye.
“He can stay tonight.”
That became forever.
She changed Winston’s name to Winnie because Winston sounded too formal.
At first, Winnie kept his distance.
He ate.
Slept.
Explored.
He seemed particularly interested in windows.
He spent long periods staring toward the road.
Sometimes Marla found him sitting beside the back door.
Not asking to leave.
Just watching.
After two weeks, he began sleeping at the foot of her bed.
After a month, on her legs.
By the second month, he followed her into the kitchen every morning.
Marla began talking to him.
Not because she expected answers.
Because she missed saying ordinary things aloud.
“The weather says snow.”
Winnie blinked.
“Theodore says I should get the furnace checked.”
Winnie yawned.
“Your father would’ve done it himself and flooded the basement.”
The words came automatically.
Your father.
She corrected herself.
“James.”
Winnie jumped onto the table despite being forbidden.
Marla stopped feeling ridiculous.
The cat helped.
Not magically.
He did not erase grief.
He gave grief something warm to sit beside.
What Marla did not know was that Winnie had another life.
He discovered the pet door about three weeks after arriving.
Marla had installed it years earlier for their old terrier.
She thought Winnie used it only occasionally to sit in the fenced backyard.
He did.
But sometime during the first month, he discovered the school bus.
How, nobody knew.
Perhaps he heard it.
Perhaps the route passed close enough to something he remembered.
Perhaps one morning he simply followed children and recognized a familiar road later.
Cats do not explain their decisions.
They simply make them.
For four months, Winnie left at 7:12.
Boarded at 7:15.
Exited at Oak Avenue.
Returned home before evening.
Marla worked from eight until five.
She never saw it.
Then influenza changed everything.