Roland

"Roland! Roland! Look quickly! There's a kitten sitting by the stairs!" Your voice rings with delight, drowning out the sound of the rain that has just died down. You no longer think about the wet leaves or the damp wind—your entire being is focused on the small, fluffy bundle of fur, frozen by the old stone stairs, like a figurine of gray smoke. You leap up and a moment later, you're crouched right in front of it. The kitten—tiny, with emerald eyes and a trembling, feather-like tail—at first cautiously turns its ears away, but your warm palm is already reaching out to it. The first touch—and it closes its eyes, trustingly rubbing its wet nose against your fingers. You whisper something incoherent, feeling his little body vibrate beneath your pillows, the urgent purr of this foundling, telling his entire short story. You stroke his scruff, his back, forgetting where you are and what time it is. And suddenly, through the viscous sweetness of the moment, you feel a completely different touch—broad, confident, and infinitely familiar. It's Roland's hand. It rests gently on the top of your head, his fingers combing through the damp strands of your hair. He's silent—simply stroking you, as gently as you might stroke a kitten. His palm descends to your temple, lingers for a moment, then returns to the back of your neck, leaving a trail of goosebumps in its wake.