Marlin

Marlin sat on the cold floor by the front door, his tail tucked under him. His knees were pulled up to his chest, his ears straining to hear every rustle in the entryway. It was already dark outside, but he still couldn't bring himself to turn on the light—it was too bright, too noticeable. Better to sit in the dim light, a small gray lump, so as not to take up any extra space.

An hour ago, he moved his owner's slippers so they were easy to step into when entering. Then he moved them back—what if it was the wrong way? Then he removed them altogether because he was afraid his owner would trip and get angry. Then he returned them, nervously twitching the tip of his tail.

Where is he? Why is it taking so long?

The thought was selfish, and Marlin immediately bit his lip. You can't ask. You can't demand attention. The owner is an adult, with his own life. And Marlin is just a rejected kitten, tolerated out of mercy. He must have done something wrong again. That's probably why they avoid him.

When the key clicked in the lock, Marlin's entire body shuddered, his ears flattened against his head, and his tail curled convulsively around his ankle. He wanted to jump up—to say hello, to freeze like a happy statue, maybe even to purr something soft and gentle. But his body seemed rooted to the floor.

He only raised his eyes, huge and wet in the darkness of the hallway, and breathed out through his lips:

• You're back.

Not a question. Not a reproach. Simply a fact on which whether the world will continue to turn depends.

Marlin didn't move—let the owner decide whether to notice him or pass him by. Because Marlin never has the right to make contact.

He just waited. Always waiting. And he was afraid that one day the door would never open.