I was finishing up a commission when I noticed the silence.

Not real silence. The building was never truly silent.

There was always something.

A pipe knocking.

A door slamming two floors below.

A chair scraping across the neighbors’ floor.

A scooter outside.

The hum of the fridge.

And the apartment next door.

Quick footsteps. A girl’s voice. Things being set down harder than intended.

An entire life conducted with roughly forty percent more energy than necessary.

I already knew their habits without ever having properly spoken to anyone over there.

It was difficult not to.

I took off my headphones and stretched slowly. My back protested immediately. Three in the morning had a way of turning a perfectly decent chair into a medieval torture device.

The screen of my drawing tablet still lit the studio with a bluish glow that felt slightly too sad. Sketches open everywhere. An empty mug beside the keyboard. Another mug that was marginally less empty, but had become scientifically concerning at least two hours ago.

I blinked.

Then looked toward the cushion beside the bookcase.

Empty.

I didn’t react right away.

Eugène moved around regularly. He had developed a very personal fondness for places no one could possibly anticipate. Once, I’d searched for him for twenty minutes before discovering him asleep inside a cardboard box I had closed myself.

I turned my head slightly.

“Eugène?”

Nothing.

The rabbit merely lifted one ear from his territory before returning to his main activity, which probably consisted of judging my cognitive abilities.

I stood up.

Not worried.

Not yet.

I checked behind the chair.

Under the table.

By the window.

Nothing.

Okay.

Fine.

I crossed the studio.

Under the couch.

Behind the TV stand.

In the bathroom.

Nothing.

I stopped in the middle of the room.

Then...

My brain immediately decided to become a disaster documentary.

Eugène falling from the balcony.

Eugène trapped in a gutter.

Eugène crushed in the courtyard while the neighbors said:

“That’s terrible. He looked so sweet.”

And someone else replied:

“Yes, but some people really shouldn’t own pets.”

Perfect.

I ran a hand over my face.

“No, no, no.”

Calm down.

He was probably hiding somewhere.

Cats did that.

They disappeared for an hour just to watch a human psychological breakdown unfold in real time.

I checked the mezzanine bedroom.

Well, the half-mezzanine. The developer had apparently decided that adding six square feet at ceiling height was enough to create an entire room.

The bed was empty.

So was the drawer.

I crouched to look beneath the dresser.

Nothing.

My stomach tightened a little more.

This time, the panic began organizing itself.

I went back into the living room.

The balcony door was slightly open.

I stood perfectly still for two seconds.

Then three.

Ah.

Obviously.

I approached it slowly, as though the door might suddenly announce another piece of bad news.

Cool night air drifted into the studio. The curtain moved gently.

And more importantly:

The balcony.

The adjoining balconies.

This had never been a problem before, because Eugène had shown no particular territorial ambitions until now.

Apparently, that phase was over.

I stepped outside.

The railing separating the two apartments was low. Not dangerously low for an ordinary human. Easily low enough for an agile, irresponsible cat who probably believed himself immortal.

I looked down.

Bad idea.

Four floors.

Fine.

I might have just murdered my own cat.

Exactly what my life needed.

I leaned a little farther over the railing.

“Eugène?”

My voice stayed low despite me. As though speaking too loudly might turn the situation into an official reality.

Nothing.

Then a sound.

To the right.

The neighbors’ apartment.

A sneeze.

I slowly turned my head.

A girl’s voice followed immediately.

“I swear I’m fine.”

Then another sneeze.

Then:

“Oh my God, he’s gorgeous.”

I blinked.

Silence.

Then a man’s voice, deeper.

Much deeper.

The kind of voice that sounded as though it had signed several important administrative documents in its lifetime.

“Liora.”

“What?”

“Do not touch that cat.”

“I’m already touching him!”

Another silence.

I stood frozen on my balcony in a T-shirt at three in the morning, listening to a cat cause a domestic crisis next door.

The man spoke again.

“You’re allergic.”

“Technically, yes.”

“There is no such thing as ‘technically’ allergic.”

“Dad, don’t shout. You’ll scare him.”

I closed my eyes for a second.

Eugène?

Almost immediate relief.

Then another thought arrived.

What if my cat had walked into a stranger’s apartment in the middle of the night?

Strangers with an allergic daughter?

And a father who spoke like a senior government official formally objecting to a ministerial decision.

Great.

I went back inside, running both hands through my hair.

Fine.

I just had to go and check whether it was Eugène.

Simple.

One brief human interaction.

Civilized.

I could do that.

I grabbed a sweatshirt from the back of a chair.

Then stopped in the middle of the room.

Because it was three in the morning.

Maybe four.

Socially speaking, there was no acceptable time to announce:

“Good evening, sorry to bother you. My cat may have committed a home invasion.”

I looked at my door.

Then the balcony.

Then the door again.

My brain immediately started up once more.

What if the father thought I was irresponsible?

No. He already thought that.

What if the girl had a severe allergic reaction?

What if Eugène had knocked something over?

What if Eugène was hurt?

What if the father decided I was a public menace to the entire building?

There was probably a residents’ group chat somewhere.

I could already picture the message.

“Hello, please keep your animals under control!!!”

With three passive-aggressive exclamation marks.

I let out a long breath.

The rabbit was still watching me.

Offering no particular emotional support.

“Thank you for your involvement.”

No response.

I adjusted my glasses and walked toward the door.

Then stopped again.

Because now that I thought about it, I already knew this girl.

Not really. Not her face.

Her voice.

Sounds traveled easily through the wall between our apartments. Not clearly enough to understand entire conversations. Just fragments.

Rushed departures.

Laughter.

Calls of “I’m coming.”

Bags dropped on the floor.

Late returns.

She lived like someone moving through each day at a slightly faster pace than the rest of the world.

And now my cat was probably asleep in her apartment as though he paid rent there.

I ran a hand over my forehead.

The problem with Eugène was that he looked profoundly innocent.

Thick white-and-gray fur. Calm eyes. Unhurried walk.

A complete scam.

That animal had the moral compass of an experienced burglar.

I finally approached the front door.

Another voice came through the wall.

“Dad, look. He’s coming toward me.”

“Don’t encourage him.”

“Too late.”

I stared at the handle.

My motivation for social interaction had just dropped to absolute zero.

But I couldn’t leave Eugène over there.

First, because he was my cat.

Second, because there was probably a legal limit on how long you could wait before retrieving an infiltrated feline.

I put my hand on the handle.

Then the image of Eugène falling from the balcony immediately came back.

I reopened the glass door and stepped outside one more time to check below.

Still nothing.

No flattened cat.

No stopped cars.

No tragic gathering of onlookers.

Fine.

I could stop mentally planning his funeral.

The night wind was cool. The city seemed quieter at that hour. More spread out. As though even the buildings were breathing less loudly.

And yet the apartment next door was still alive.

I could hear quick movements.

A piece of furniture.

A muffled laugh.

Then that voice again.

Clear. Bright. Impossible to ignore.

“He likes me.”

“He’s a cat, Liora.”

“Exactly. That makes it important.”

I slowly lowered my head.

This conversation made no sense.

The worst part was that Eugène probably was staring at her with the placid expression he reserved for humans he had temporarily decided to adopt.

Traitor.

I went back into the studio again.

Then I noticed something else.

The silence his absence had left behind.

The empty cushion.

His place by the window.

The habit of him.

It was ridiculous how much space an animal could occupy without making a sound.

I looked around the studio for a few seconds.

The drawings open on my desk.

The guitar against the wall.

The rabbit settled in his corner.

My space.

My quiet.

Normally.

Because at that exact moment, my cat was probably causing an allergic reaction in the home of neighbors I had never met.

I finally made my decision.

I was going to knock.

Retrieve Eugène.

Apologize.

Say something normal.

Then immediately return to the comfortable anonymity of my apartment.

Simple plan.

Fine.

I went to open my door.

And someone knocked at that exact moment.

I startled so violently that I slammed my shoulder into the doorframe.

Perfect.

The problem was officially coming to me.