Selene sat on the edge of the couch, the unopened envelope balanced on her knees. The cat had curled itself nearby, fur still damp, eyes half-closed yet strangely alert like a sentry pretending to sleep.
Her hands hovered over the envelope. The inked letters of her name stared back at her, black and uneven, as though scrawled in haste or in anger.
For ten long minutes she did nothing. She told herself she wouldn't open it. That it was a prank, junk mail, some mis-delivery. But the silence in her apartment stretched too long, too thin. The envelope demanded to be opened.
She tore the flap.
Inside was a single sheet of paper, folded once. No letterhead. No date. Just four words written in the same heavy, smudged ink:
DON'T TRUST THE CAT.
Selene blinked, heart hammering. Her first reaction was absurd laughter, short and sharp, cut off almost immediately. It was ridiculous. Insane. Who would write this?
The cat lifted its head. Stared at her with burning golden eyes, as if it understood.
"No," Selene whispered, clutching the note tighter. "No, this is crazy. This is"
The lights flickered again.
And when the room settled, the envelope was gone from her lap.
Vanished.
Selene leapt to her feet, scanning the floor, the couch, her own trembling hands. Nothing. Only the paper remained, limp and wet with sweat in her palm. The envelope itself had disappeared.
Her chest heaved. She backed away from the couch, knocking into the table again.
The cat hadn't moved.
It just kept watching.
