Chapter 14: Departure Day

It happened early — too early — in the quiet before dawn, the hour when the world is neither fully asleep nor fully awake. Outside, the sky was the color of wet ash, a heavy fog crawling low to the ground like something alive. Even the wind had gone still, as if it, too, knew to keep silent.

Inside, the East Wing lay dim and hollow, lit only by the amber glow of a single hallway lamp. Monica moved through the space in measured, deliberate steps. She folded soft fleece blankets — blankets that had held the shape and warmth of sleeping cats — and tucked them into bags with practiced hands. Her motions were careful, almost reverent, as though each item was a piece of something sacred.

The fountain gurgled its last sleepy bubbles before she pulled the plug; the sound faded into nothingness. Toys were gathered into neat bundles. The Litter Robot clicked once and fell silent. Even the cat tree — that towering watchtower by the dormer window — was lifted and carried away, leaving behind a pale outline on the carpet where it had stood like a sentinel.

“They’re leaving,” Lily whispered from the hallway.