Every afternoon around four, Mrs. Elena settled into the same corner of her couch with her yarn and needles. The house would grow quiet except for the soft clicking sound of her crocheting. It had been her routine for years, ever since her husband passed. The rhythm helped her think, remember, and sometimes forget.
And every afternoon, just before she began, the gray cat appeared.
No one knew exactly when Luna started this ritual. She wasn’t loud about it. She simply jumped onto the cushion beside Elena, sat tall for a moment like she was checking everything was in order, then curled into a loaf beside the blanket growing slowly in Elena’s lap.
Elena often talked to her as if she were an old friend.
“You know, this one’s for my granddaughter,” she’d say softly, looping the yarn. “Blue like her eyes.”
Luna would blink slowly, her tail wrapped neatly around her paws, listening the way only a cat can.
Neighbors said the cat followed Elena everywhere, but Elena knew better. Luna didn’t follow her. She chose her.
On days when Elena’s hands trembled or her thoughts wandered, Luna pressed closer, resting against her arm as if steadying her. On better days, she simply watched the yarn dance.
To anyone else, it looked like an old woman crocheting with her cat nearby.
But to Elena, it felt like she was never alone.
