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The Siamese cat learned early that humans mistake silence for emptiness
The Siamese cat learned early that humans mistake silence for emptiness
His name was Kao, though he only tolerated it when spoken softly. He lived in a narrow blue house at the edge of the city, where the walls smelled of old books and rain, and the windows watched the street like tired eyes. Kao had almond-shaped eyes the color of melted blue and a voice far too large for his elegant body. When he spoke—because Siamese cats do speak, just not in human words—it was never without intention.
Kao belonged to a woman named Mira, a writer who had forgotten how to finish stories.
Every morning, Mira sat at her desk with a chipped mug of coffee, staring at a blinking cursor as if it had personally betrayed her. Kao would sit beside the keyboard, tail wrapped neatly around his paws, observing. Humans, he decided, were creatures of great emotion and very little listening.
When Mira sighed, Kao answered.
“Rrrow?”
She would smile faintly and scratch behind his ears. “I know, Kao. I should write.”
But she didn’t. Not really.
At night, when the house fell quiet and the city hummed like a distant machine, Kao would patrol the rooms. He memorized Mira’s footsteps, the way she rubbed her temples when she was sad, the exact moment before she cried—because crying had a smell. Salty. Heavy. Like old rain.
One evening, a storm cut the power. The house plunged into darkness, and Mira sat on the floor, hugging her knees. Kao jumped into her lap without ceremony. He pressed his warm forehead against her chest and purred, deep and steady, like a small engine determined to keep the world running.
Mira whispered, “I’m afraid I don’t matter anymore.”
Kao did not understand the words, but he understood the weight. He stood, walked across her chest, and placed one paw directly over her heart. Then he looked at her with absolute seriousness and let out a loud, indignant mrrrraaow—the sound he reserved for unacceptable situations, such as empty food bowls or despair.
Mira laughed. A real laugh. It startled them both.
The next day, she wrote.
Not about herself, and not about fear. She wrote about a Siamese cat who believed he was the guardian of a fragile human, a creature prone to sadness but capable of great warmth. The words came easily, as if Kao had been storing them in his silence all along.
Weeks passed. The story grew. Mira smiled more. Kao slept in sunbeams and on unfinished pages, leaving faint ink smudges like signatures. He approved.
When the story was published, Mira held the book in her hands and cried again—but this time, the tears smelled bright.
She lifted Kao and pressed her forehead to his. “You saved me,” she said.
Kao blinked slowly, the way cats do when they mean love.
He did not tell her the truth—that humans save themselves, and cats merely remind them how.
Instead, he purred.
And that, in the language of Siamese cats, meant:
This is my home. This is my human.
Explore the Author’s Shop!
Explore the Author’s Shop!
A special Siamese cat design was created for the character in this story. Visit the author’s shop shelf to discover all the products featuring this unique design — from apparel to accessories and more!
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