Through the weeping household stalked a small black cat—just past kittenhood, and more gamine than gangly. She darted past the skirts of a grieving wife as the woman buried her face in a ... [+]
“What are you doing?” he asked.
“Waiting” she replied.
Stifling a “why?” he sat down next to her. She clearly had no interest in answering his questions . Instead he waited with her, waiting until his hands froze, until his head slipped down onto the ledge, until he fell into dreams less strange than the one he was living.
His father found them, in the morning. Never a word was said to him about it, but the way everyone looked at him the young man knew he had been wrong to sit with her all night. She herself disappeared and he went on through the monotonous days alone. The darkness would come every night and he never stopped waiting. The man would watch the square out of his bedroom window, looking for something he knew she hadn’t found, and he doubted would ever come for him.