Chapter Text
A bloody corpse of a young, black cat is lying on my front porch.
I look down at the corpse, then at the front of the house. It is a quiet morning. The apartment across the street is casting a long black shadow on the pavement in front of me. A light breeze rushes over to bear witness to the carcass, its haste rustling the nearby bushes and branches—a dry whispering in an ancient language I have never learned how to decipher.
Somewhere in the distance, I can hear the murmur of cars, their tires crunching pebbles against the asphalt as the world begins its day. And there is a corpse in the middle of the stairs before me. To human eyes, a corpse is always a strangely exaggerated presence—it occupies more space in the mind than the living ever could.
But this time it's different. This is a cat's corpse. An animal corpse.
Somehow, small corpses—those of cats or birds—are perceived as part of the natural order, something one shouldn't overdramatise. Even in the face of death, human beings discriminate; they see their own passing as something to be celebrated or mourned with grand ceremony, while the animal is merely a footnote in the landscape.
In any case, this dead cat blends in with the landscape, becoming one with the everyday peaceful morning scenery. After a while, I realise the reason. The corpse’s chest is moving up and down faintly. It is not a corpse, it is alive.
It is hard for me to distinguish the motion of its breathing, especially given how thin and ghastly the creature looks.
I look at the black cat. He is a void of dark fur, broken only by the stark white of bandages wrapped around his head and limbs. The fabric is ruined now, blotted with irregular spots of fresh red.
In many stories, black cats are viewed as a bad omen. To see one in this state—a monochrome of black and white, stained by the colour of blood—only deepens that sense of ill-fortune. But as I look at him, I don't feel cursed. I only feel a strange, hollow sense of recognition.
The spot where he lies is exactly in the middle of the stairs leading to my porch. I follow the trail of blood, tracing a path all the way down. It is clear now; he wasn't placed here. He had been crawling, dragging his small, broken body toward my door with a singular, quiet persistence.
I try to reach out with my mind, to see the seconds ahead, but there is only a hollow silence where the cat should be. My ability, Flawless, finds nothing to grasp. He is a void in my vision—a blind spot in reality itself.
Now, the question. What should I do with this nearly-corpse in front of my eyes?
The answer is simple. If I were to nudge him with the tip of my toe, putting just enough weight behind it, he would simply roll down the stairs. Once he hit the ground below, he would no longer be on my premises; he would be the street's problem. An ordinary postman like me should probably just call the animal shelter, go inside, and have breakfast.
The cat is no ordinary stray; he wears bandages. Clearly, someone is taking care of him. It isn’t my business...
I look at the cat, at the road, and the sky, and at him again.
And then I start to act. I approach the cat and gently lift him against my chest. He is trembling quietly, a fragile vibration against my palms, and he is much lighter than he looks.
Therefore, carrying him up to my apartment is not much of a struggle. Once inside, I lay him down and check his wounds. There are a few deep ones, but the bleeding isn't life-threatening. As long as he receives immediate, proper treatment, it is not like he will die.
I retrieve my medical kit from the back of the closet and begin the first aid. I slide a fresh towel under his trembling body, then use a pair of scissors to cut away the old, bloodied bandages, exposing the raw gashes beneath.
To stop the flow, I apply pressure to the key points and bind them tightly with a clean cloth. I then apply disinfected tourniquets to the most persistent wounds. Fortunately for him, this is the kind of work I can do even with my eyes closed—a muscle memory born from a life I’ve tried to leave behind.
After I am done with the treatments, I stand back and look down at the black cat, crossing my arms. His breathing has stabilised, the rhythm steadying into something less ghastly. His respiratory system and bones seem to be intact; he is broken, but not beyond repair. Yet, he shows no sign of waking.
"It’s fine already. Just call animal services," a voice says in the back of my head. I stand there in the silence of my apartment and consider the thought deeply, weighing the peace of an empty home against the weight of the breathing shadow on my table.
Before following the "angel’s" advice, I take another look at the feline. He is much younger than I first thought—perhaps young enough to pass as a "kitten". There is a smallness to him that makes the bandages and the blood feel like even greater sacrilege. He is just a child of his species, caught in a violence he shouldn't yet understand.
I sigh, finally deciding to listen to reason and call the professionals. But as my fingers wrap around the receiver, I hear a faint, thinned-out voice. It isn’t coming from the phone.
“Meow”
I turn toward the direction of the sharp chirp. Before I can react, the cat has opened his eyes and is staring directly at me. Those feline eyes are dark and bottomless—a pair of twin abysses set into a small, furry face. I am no cat expert, but I don't think I’ve ever seen anything quite like them.
I look at the receiver in my hand, then at the youth on the table, and back again. Finally, I let out a breath and ask calmly, "You don’t want me to call animal services, do you?"
“Mmmreow,” the cat mewls, the sound stretching out as if he were merely yawning from boredom. But the low vibration of his reply, steady and resonant against the table, makes me believe he is being entirely serious despite his aloofness. He is telling me, in his own way, that the professionals are not welcome here.
For a stray, he is far too comfortable in a stranger's apartment. I let out a sigh and sit across from him, meeting that bottomless gaze. The black cat possesses an air of distinct arrogance, yet it’s seasoned with a strange flavour of indifference.
It is an odd sensation—as if I am sitting across from a predatory panther, yet looking at a helpless kitten at the same time. What an odd feeling.
I prop my cheek against my palm, elbow resting on the table as I watch him.
"And what exactly do you want me to do with you?" I ask. "You need proper treatment, little guy. Those wounds are no joke—if we aren't careful, you might actually die."
The black cat blinks slowly, holding my gaze for a long, silent minute. Then, without a sound, he drops onto his side as if to rest. His feline eyes are empty, fixed on some invisible point in the distance, and his limp body looks more like a corpse than a relaxing kitten.
Something in that stillness tells me he finds his predicament favourable. It isn't the exhaustion of a survivor; it’s the surrender of someone who finally found a place to stop. It’s as if, in his own quiet way, he truly wants to die.
I feel a chill wind passing through me, despite the warmth of the room.
I look at the black kitten. He is just staring into the distance—no emotion, no intent. It is a flat expression, as devoid of feeling as a man reciting his age. I can hardly believe my own eyes; I don't even feel as if there is a living being there at all. If it were late at night instead of a refreshing early morning, I would be convinced he was a ghost or a hallucination.
Crazy things keep happening today. My life is about to get weird.
“Fine then,” I say, my voice flat and even. “If you want to die, then die. It’s your own life; I won’t stop you. But I’ll be in trouble if you do it here. It would be uncomfortable having to dispose of a carcass, not to mention the landowner wouldn't be pleased. And besides… I might get cursed.”
"Meoooowwwww..."
The cat lets out a low, guttural mewl. It sounds as though he is countering me with a witty, sharp-tongued argument, but it also carries the weight of a pathetic, dying cry. I stare at the "dying poet" for a moment, then let out a long breath.
I decide to go make breakfast. I’ve already lost the debate.
While the coffee drips and the eggs bob in the boiling water, I reach for a carton of cream. Then I ask, my eyes still on my task at hand: "You want some coffee?"
No answer.
"Maybe some soft-boiled eggs? Or do you prefer them hard-boiled?"
Still no answer.
"Or milk? I’ve heard milk is bad for animals," I muse with a nod, "but perhaps you’re the type who doesn't mind."
No answer for that one, either. Of course.
I feel as if I am talking to a wind fairy—a character from a childhood picture book who has suddenly manifested in my home on a peaceful morning. The only difference is that this creature is covered in blood, and he wants to die.
I pour the coffee into my cup and stir in a splash of cream. The rest of the carton I pour into a small saucer for my guest. For a moment, I simply watch the white cream swirl into the dark liquid, mirroring the clouds in the other "cup." I wait a beat before I start stirring, the steam dancing in warm loops around my hand.
Then, the air changes. I realise I can no longer feel the presence of anyone in the next room. I can’t hear his breathing. No hint of death drifting either.
I poke my head out of the kitchen, the cups still steady in my hands. The black cat is limping toward the front door. He clearly hasn't regained much strength; he is simply creeping forward with a slow, agonising persistence. In the morning light, he looks exactly like an abused pet escaping a cell in one of those old, flickering, sad movies.
He notices my gaze. Then, as if he has finally given up his escape, the feline mockingly half-closes his eyes in a slow, hooded blink. A thin whine leaves his maw, a sound that carries the weight of a spoken retort: "I know exactly what you’re thinking, and it doesn’t bother me in the least."
I scrunch my nose and ask him, still holding the drinks, “Do you want to die that much?”
He lets out a huff—a sound like a soul-deprived gasp, hollow and cold. It is his only answer. Then, with an agonising lack of strength, he begins to crawl again, his small, bandaged body dragging across the floor toward the exit.
I take a sip of my coffee while watching that. His progress is pathetically slow. I take another sip, the steam warming my face as he continues to drag himself forward without a single rest. He has no intent of looking back at me anymore; he is focused entirely on the distance beyond the door.
I set my cup down. There is only one thing to do.
“Meowwww...” The young cat complains, his ears twitching as he senses my movement behind him. He lifts his head, gaze still fixed stubbornly on the door, his mouth half-open as if trying to shout me down.
“Meow me-meeoooooooooooowww!!!???”
It’s a long, desperate question that goes unanswered as he is suddenly, unceremoniously, pulled backwards.
As I carry him toward my bedroom, the ball of furry void mewls loudly, flailing in agitated protest. I have never encountered such an expressive cat in my entire life. But what is even stranger is that he never once attempts to scratch me. His claws snag only at my sleeves, carefully avoiding my skin, as if there is a boundary he refuses to cross even in his panic.
Once in my room, I find a clean towel and wrap the stubborn cat in it, using that "purrito" technique I’d heard about once. I make sure the wrapping is firm enough to keep him still but gentle enough to let him breathe. I carefully set the "patient" in the valley between two pillows, then walk over to open the window, letting the crisp morning air flow into the room.
“For the time being, until your wounds have healed, I will have you stay like that,” I say, looking down at the small bundle. I meet the cat's unimpressed gaze, the "purrito" keeping him still enough for a real conversation. “Is there anything you want?” I ask.
He wiggles his nose, the twitching whiskers apparently telling me that it itches.
“Poor you,” I say, my voice flat but not unkind. I leave the "patient" there in his towel-bound dignity and go back to the kitchen to finish my coffee.
The kitten’s insults echo behind my back as I walk away. Fortunately, this neighborhood is sparsely populated; there is no need to worry about the neighbors being disturbed by such a feline cacophony. I sit and enjoy my morning coffee and eggs in peace.
And so begins the strange, brief communal life of the black cat and me. Later, I decide to give him a name befitting his melancholic, furry grace.
I call him Kuro.