Kitten

Name: [It has no name].

Nickname: Kitten.

Plush kitten.

Small size, like most plush toys.

Its body is made of a worn white colored plush fabric, but seams that hold it together are the key to its unique origin, the threads that bind it are thick, frayed, and in contrasting colors. One of its ears is made of soft, pristine white velvet, while the other is smaller, made of rough, frayed black felt. The right eye is a deep, polished, glossy black glass sphere, while the left is a flat, opaque mother-of-pearl button, set at a slight angle. The left leg is stiff, made of black synthetic silk that wrinkles when it moves. The tail is long, unusually bushy, and made of silver synthetic fur, cut short as if it were missing hair.

When it tries to make a sound, all that happens is a tension in the felt of its face, a gesture from its plush mouth that generates neither air nor vibration. A silent attempt at communication that dissolves into thin air. The deep voice that occasionally emerges from the kitten is an involuntary and terrifying phenomenon for the toy itself. Normally, the kitten is a silent being, but in moments of extreme sensory stress, confusion, or unusual physical exertion, the voice manifests. The sound doesn't come from its felt throat, but seems to resonate from inside its plush chest, as if the source were trapped within the cotton stuffing. It's a deep, cavernous, masculine voice that lasts only a few minutes and is unintelligible.

When it moves, it does so with exaggerated caution. Its steps are slightly stiff and jerky due to the disparity in the lengths and materials of its legs. It performs a series of deliberate, almost robotic movements, as if calculating each step to maintain balance in its stitched body. Often, it stops abruptly to examine the stitching of its own knee or to lift a leg and assess its uneven weight.

At a sudden sound, its large velvet ear turns with surprising precision toward the source of the noise, while its felt ear barely stirs. When it senses a new texture, its felt nose slowly approaches to sniff, and then it rubs the paw that feels the surface, as if trying to categorize the sensation. Its silvery tail doesn't move, it drags.

He has a neurotic need to check his seams. He constantly raises his paws (especially the silk one, which is more flexible) to inspect the seams. He uses his opaque button eye for his knack of stalking and focusing, since it's slightly crooked, he often tilts his head in an exaggerated way when particularly intrigued, making sure the seam between the button and the plush is directly aligned with the object of his interest. He often uses his tiny felt fingers to pinch or rub a loose thread, as if he fears his existence might unravel at any moment. If he notices a frayed thread, he freezes completely still, staring at it with terrifying concentration.

He feels a deep fascination with indirect light, especially that which filters through lace curtains or reflects off a polished surface. He is strongly drawn to uniform and consistent textures. He intensely enjoys any gentle source of warmth—not the intensity of fire, but the residual heat of an object left near a sunny window or the touch of a soft wool blanket. His patchwork body seems to completely relax, and for a moment, the seams feel less taut. Overall, he is curious and wants to explore and learn about everything.

It was never given a formal name before its awakening, it was originally the centerpiece of a failed sewing project. After that, it passed through many hands that didn't care for it, until finally, it ended up in a dusty, forgotten attic. Its resurrection occurred during a particularly violent thunderstorm, somehow coming to life.

He hates being moved or handled suddenly or roughly. A long, dangling thread is a source of immediate anxiety, to him, a loose thread represents the danger of unraveling. If he finds a stub of thread, he looks at it in panic. He has an instinctive fear of water. A simple puddle or drizzle makes him tense, water could wet and weaken his sewing threads, undo the glue holding some of his patches together, or worse, ruin his stuffing.