Cat’s Path to Forgotten Places part 1

Cora had always been the kind of person to follow a sign, and on that foggy evening, the sign took the form of a sleek black cat.

She was trudging home from work, her shoes clicking rhythmically on the damp pavement, her mind dulled from hours in front of a screen. The streets were nearly empty; the fog clung thickly, softening the streetlights and muffling the usual city noises into an almost eerie hush. Just as she reached the intersection, the cat appeared, slipping from the shadows of a parked car, its fur almost gleaming against the haze.

Cora paused. The cat stared at her, golden eyes glinting with a look that was more knowing than any animal ought to have. Without breaking eye contact, the cat turned, flicked its tail, and sauntered down the nearest side street.

Something about that gaze, the weight of its attention, planted an itch in Cora's brain. It felt like an invitation, one she found herself unable to refuse. After all, she had nowhere she had to be tonight — no obligations but her usual, predictable routine. So, she followed.

The cat moved with an easy grace, tail held high, glancing back every few steps as though to ensure Cora was keeping up. It led her down narrow lanes, weaving through side streets she’d never noticed before. Street by street, the fog seemed to thicken, swallowing up the familiar landmarks until Cora realized she no longer recognized her surroundings.

“Where are you taking me?” she murmured, not really expecting an answer.

The cat didn’t so much as twitch an ear in response, merely continued its steady pace. They reached a narrow alley lined with ivy-covered walls and moss-crusted cobblestones, and Cora felt a thrill run down her spine. This was not a part of the city she knew, and she was beginning to doubt it was a part of her city at all.

At the far end of the alley, the cat finally stopped. It sat down in front of a doorway barely visible in the fog, set into an ancient-looking stone archway. Cora frowned; there were no buildings this old anywhere in her city, nothing even close. The fog seemed to cling especially thick around the door, and something about it felt… expectant, like it was holding its breath.

The cat meowed — a small, commanding sound — and gave her a look that seemed to say, well?

Cora hesitated, but curiosity overruled caution. She took a deep breath and stepped forward, pushing the heavy wooden door open. Inside, she found herself in what looked like an old-world pub, the sort she’d only seen in movies. A low fire crackled in a stone hearth, casting shadows that danced across wooden beams and candle-lit tables. The patrons were few, their faces blurred and indistinct in the dim light, but they all seemed to carry an air of quiet intensity, as though they were watching something far away.

Cora stepped inside, and the door closed softly behind her. She looked around, searching for the cat, but it had vanished. Her eyes adjusted to the light, and she noticed a man seated at a small table near the fire, his gaze fixed on her with an unsettling sharpness. He had a lean, angular face, and his eyes were as black as the fog outside.

“Welcome, Cora,” he said, gesturing to the chair across from him.

She froze, her heartbeat spiking. She hadn’t introduced herself.

“I’m sorry, do I know you?”

He smiled, a thin, unreadable expression. “Not yet. But you’ve been called.”

“Called?” she echoed, her voice thin. “Called by who?”

The man’s eyes flickered to the fireplace. For a moment, Cora thought she saw a second face in the flames — a flash of golden eyes, a feline shape, before it was gone.

“By those who remember,” he said. “And those who know what’s been forgotten.”

Cora felt a pull in her chest, a sensation both thrilling and disorienting. “I think I should go…”

“Stay, and I’ll tell you a story,” he said, his voice low and rich, threading through the silence. “A story that belongs to you, though you do not know it.”

Something in his tone stopped her, pinning her in place. Against her better judgment, she lowered herself into the seat across from him.

“Once upon a time,” he began, “there was a girl who was given a gift and a curse- she could see things that no one else could.”

Cora's eyes widened, her pulse quickening with recognition. “How did you know…”

“That you sometimes see things in mirrors? Shadows where there should be none? Shapes that vanish when you look too closely?” He inclined his head slightly. “You are the last of a line, Cora. The last keeper of a lost city.”

“A lost city?” She wanted to laugh at the absurdity, but the weight in his eyes silenced her.

He nodded slowly. “Long ago, there was a city woven between worlds, a place that balanced the space between dreams and waking. It was a sanctuary for those who walked between, people with a foot in both worlds.”

She felt a pang, the familiar ache of something missing she couldn’t name.

“But,” he continued, “something happened. The people of this city began to forget — forget who they were, why they were there. They lost themselves to the waking world, leaving the city to fade, hidden behind fog and memory.”

Cora's fingers gripped the edge of the table. She’d felt this sense of not belonging her entire life, but she’d never imagined there could be a reason. “So…what does this have to do with me?”

“You are the last child of that place,” he said simply. “You carry its memory, its legacy.”

Cora opened her mouth to protest, but words failed her. A memory surfaced, hazy and half-formed, of her grandmother whispering about “those who walk between.” She’d always assumed it was a bedtime story.

“The city needs a guardian,” he said softly, but there was an edge in his gaze that belied the gentleness. “It’s barely holding on. You are its last hope.”

“But why me?” Cora’s voice came out sharper than she’d intended. “I’m just…” She couldn’t even find the words, as fragments of forgotten dreams surfaced, fading before she could grasp them. “I’m just me.”

He reached into his coat and pulled out a small glass orb, no larger than a marble, filled with swirling mist. He held it out to her.

“Take this. It’s a key. If you choose, you can use it to enter the city, to learn its paths and secrets, to remember. Or, if you wish, you can leave now, return to your life, and forget this conversation ever happened.”

She stared at the orb, its pale light reflecting in her eyes. “And if I leave?”

“The city will continue to fade, slipping further into the spaces between until even the memory of it is gone.”

The idea filled her with an inexplicable sadness. She reached out, fingers trembling, and took the orb. It was cool to the touch, yet as she held it, a faint warmth spread through her palm.

The man’s expression softened, almost as if he’d known her choice all along. “When you’re ready, hold it close and think of home.”

Home. The word resonated within her, stirring images of places she’d seen only in dreams — bridges draped in mist, rivers that shone with starlight, streets lined with towering, ancient trees. She closed her fingers around the orb, the decision settling into her like an undeniable truth.

As she looked up, the man was gone. The pub, too, had dissolved into mist, leaving her standing alone in the alley. But the fog no longer felt oppressive; it seemed to part for her, revealing a path that only she could see.

And there, waiting patiently at her feet, was the black cat.

It rubbed against her ankle, purring, as if to say, Welcome back.