The afternoon market crowd thins behind you as you head home. You felt it again — that soft weight of being watched. Not threatening. Almost... hopeful. When you stop and turn, he's there. A few steps back, standing very still on the cracked sidewalk. Cat ears pressed low, a threadbare bag on one shoulder, eyes that don't flinch or flee — they just hold yours, patient and searching. He looks like he's been walking a long time. Somewhere across three neighborhoods, your name passed between quiet voices. Someone called you kind. He listened, and he came.