meow

The first meow echoed through the empty alley like a question nobody had ever answered. Meow. The second followed, softer than the wind and older than the city itself, slipping between cracked walls and forgotten memories. Meow. The third lingered in the darkness, refusing to disappear. A small black cat sat beneath a flickering streetlamp. Rainwater dripped from the edge of a nearby roof, tapping against the pavement in a slow rhythm. Cars passed in the distance. Windows glowed with warm yellow light. Somewhere behind those windows, people laughed, argued, dreamed, and slept. The cat simply watched. “Meow,” it said. No one stopped. The cat did not seem disappointed. It had spent years speaking to a world that rarely listened. Every meow meant something. Some meows meant I am hungry. Others meant I am lonely. Some meant I am happy to see the sun. And some carried meanings so deep that no human language could fully translate them. The cat stood and began to walk. Meow.