Chapter 5: Pawprints in the Snow

But now I can’t even turn into human form, let alone use magic to return to the heavens.

I felt trapped—caught between worlds, neither here nor there.

I lay dejectedly in my nest, looking out at the gloomy sky and sighing.

The clouds hung low, pressing down on my chest. I wondered if the sun would ever shine again.

But soon Mr. Forrest came back.

He returned rather disheveled, hair messy, clothes a bit dirty.

I’d never seen him like that before—rumpled, tired, like he’d been through a storm.

I lay by his leg and asked, “Mr. Forrest, what’s wrong?”

My voice was small, but he heard me. He always did.

Mr. Forrest’s expression was hard to read. “His Majesty said I don’t need to cook for the nobles in the mansion anymore.”

He sounded resigned, but there was an edge of anger underneath. I bristled in sympathy.

I anxiously circled around him. “Did the mutt king fire you?”

I wanted to bite the king’s ankles, but I settled for pacing in circles.

Mr. Forrest didn’t answer, just tidied up and went to his study. I peeked through the window and saw him painting beauty portraits again.

He poured himself into his work, brush flying across the canvas. I wondered if he was painting me, or someone else.

I sat lost on a bench in the hallway, for the first time really thinking about my relationship with this body.

Who was I, really? A cat, an immortal, or something in between? The question gnawed at me.

From the moment I woke up, I knew I wasn’t the immortal.

I woke up in this body.

But who was I before that? I frowned, trying to remember.

My memories were fuzzy—just flashes of fur, hunger, and longing. Nothing solid.

I had no memory at all. I only knew I wasn’t Kitty, the immortal the mutt king talked about, nor was I an immortal.

I was just… me. Whoever that was.

Fine rain and falling leaves landed on me, soaking my short fur.

The chill seeped into my bones, but I didn’t move. Sometimes, you just have to let yourself feel sad.

I sneezed from the cold but didn’t dare go inside.

The sound echoed down the hallway, lonely and small. I shivered, but stayed put.

Mr. Forrest seemed to be in a bad mood.

I didn’t want to bother him, but I wished he’d come out and sit with me.

I pressed my tongue against my teeth and quietly whispered Mr. Forrest’s name: “Dale Forrest.”

The name tasted strange on my tongue—familiar and foreign all at once. I whispered it again, softer.

I’m not very educated, but saying it out loud felt oddly intimate.

Like sharing a secret with the wind. I hoped he couldn’t hear me.

Next moment, I nervously looked around, afraid someone would catch me whispering Mr. Forrest’s name.

Old habits die hard. Even as a cat, I worried about being caught.

Seeing no one, I relaxed and lay back down. The fine rain falling on my fur actually felt kind of nice.

It was cool and soothing, like a gentle hand stroking my back. I closed my eyes, letting myself drift.

Unintentionally, I dozed off.

Dreams came, soft and strange—memories of chasing butterflies, of warm kitchens and softer hands.

When I woke again, it was evening. Mr. Forrest picked me up, not minding I was wet, and carried me into the study.

His hands were gentle, careful not to jostle me. I pressed my nose to his shirt, inhaling the scent of flour and paint.

Mr. Forrest wore a black shirt, making his skin look even paler.

He looked like a painting himself, all sharp lines and soft shadows. I stared, entranced.

Seeing me look at him, he seemed a bit amused. “Who are you showing off for, getting rained on like that?”

He arched an eyebrow, half-smiling. I ducked my head, embarrassed.

I shrank my neck. “Wasn’t it because you were in a bad mood?”

My voice was small, but honest. I hoped he’d understand.

“Would I eat you just because I’m in a bad mood? Monsters can catch colds too, and with the mansion on high alert, where am I supposed to find medicine for you?” Mr. Forrest’s usually gentle voice was stern.

He fussed over me, checking my ears and paws. I felt a little guilty for making him worry.

I carefully jumped onto the desk, pressed my forehead to Mr. Forrest’s hand and rubbed against him, melting into a puddle of cat.

It was my way of saying sorry, and thank you, and please don’t be mad.

“Sorry, I fell asleep by accident. I didn’t mean to get rained on.”

My apology was sincere, if a little muffled by fur.

Mr. Forrest realized he’d been too harsh, softened his tone, produced that big fluffy tail, and wrapped me up completely.

His tail was like a blanket, warm and comforting. I purred, feeling safe again.

I instinctively struggled. “I’m all dirty.”

I didn’t want to mess up his beautiful fur, but he just laughed.

Mr. Forrest ignored my feeble protests, instead tossing me into the air, scaring my tail straight.

I landed with a thump, heart racing. He caught me, cradling me close.

Half annoyed, Mr. Forrest picked up the paper I’d stepped and dripped on. Only then did I see I’d left several paw prints on the beauty’s face he’d painted.

I drooped down completely.

My ears burned with shame. I’d ruined his work, and I was sure he’d be angry.

Unexpectedly, Mr. Forrest wasn’t angry. Instead, he pressed my paw down for a few more prints.

He grinned, making a game of it. I relaxed, letting him guide my paw across the page.

“What’s your name, fat cat?”

He looked at me expectantly. I hesitated, unsure what to say.

I instinctively wanted to answer “Kitty,” but stopped. That’s the immortal’s name, not mine.

I wanted something of my own—something that belonged to me.

I thought for a bit and said, “I’m called Dale Cat.”

It was a clumsy name, but it felt right. I glanced up, hoping he’d approve.

Mr. Forrest laughed. “You just made that up, didn’t you?”

His laughter was warm, not mocking. I felt my cheeks heat up.

I buried my head in embarrassment. I can’t read, never went to school, just borrowed Mr. Forrest’s last name and made something up.