“What is this place…?” I murmured, advancing cautiously. “Could it be that this cat haunts this manor?”

“I knew it was a bad idea to come here! I should never have followed you! Let’s turn back before he notices us, nya!” Kumo begged, his voice trembling with fear as he clung to my arm, his face pale.

I could no longer hear Kumo, too absorbed in the murmurs of the old cat. I approached quietly, trying to understand what he was whispering.

“Her eyes were a deep blue, like the ocean… Her fur, pure white… She had infinite grace; every movement was a dance…” he murmured, his voice breaking with emotion.

I repeated his words softly, trying to visualize this description.

My gaze fell on one of the crumpled drawings at my feet. I picked it up gently and unfolded it. It was a clumsy, shaky sketch of a cat, probably the same one he was describing.

The lines were hesitant, the strokes trembling, as if the artist had struggled to capture this memory.

“Kumo, I think this cat is trying to draw someone,” I said, handing him the crumpled drawing.

Kumo took a quick look and shrugged.

“Well, it’s pretty badly drawn. Very ugly,” Kumo commented bluntly, with a hint of sarcasm.

I rolled my eyes, exasperated by his lack of tact.

My gaze swept across the room, searching for a blank sheet and something to draw with. My heart was pounding at the thought of what I was about to do.

“Psst, Yui, stop that and let’s get out of here, please,” Kumo pleaded.

“Found it!” I exclaimed, finally finding a blank sheet and a pencil amidst the mess.

I knew I had to try to draw this cat based on the old cat’s description. But once I had the pencil in my hand, a wave of anxiety washed over me, my hands trembling as well.

How long had it been since I last drew?

I remembered a time when I was still young, sitting at my desk in my room. The golden light of the setting sun streamed through the window, illuminating the pages of my sketchbook.

I loved spending hours drawing. At first, it was simple things: houses, trees, smiling faces. But the more I drew, the more my sketches became detailed, as if I was trying to capture a world I couldn’t express otherwise.

One day, while I was deeply focused on a drawing, my mother entered my room without knocking. I still remember the look she gave me when she saw my open sketchbook. Her face froze, and a shadow crossed her eyes.

“Yui, what is this? Wasting your time with these scribbles again?” Her voice was cold, cutting.

I didn’t know what to say, my heart racing. Drawing made me so happy, but to her, it was a useless activity, a meaningless distraction. She snatched the sketchbook from my hands and flipped through it quickly, her brows furrowing more with each page.

“I told you to stop this nonsense. You’d better focus on your studies. Drawing will get you nowhere.”

I wasn’t allowed to argue, so I simply nodded in silence, keeping my head down to hide my tears. She left, taking my sketchbook with her, and I was left alone in my room, my throat tight with injustice.

But I couldn’t stop drawing. It was stronger than me. I remember hiding sheets of paper and pencils under my mattress, drawing in secret whenever I had the chance. I drew late at night, by the light of a small lamp, praying that no one would catch me.

One day, however, my mother found my hidden drawings. She said nothing, but from that moment on, she started keeping an eye on my notebooks. I knew I couldn’t draw freely anymore. Every pencil stroke became an act of defiance, but the fear of disappointing her eventually made me give up. I ended up putting away my pencils, locking away my dreams in a box I no longer dared to open.

My parents had always despised and forbidden this activity, calling it futile and useless—a real waste of time.

Their words had left a mark, making me doubt myself constantly.

I felt my heart race, my hands growing clammy. My mind was in turmoil.

What if I couldn’t do it? Was I ever any good at it, even back then? What if it was all just a distorted memory? I could barely remember; my memories were blurry.

Suddenly, a gentle hand rested on my shoulder, bringing me back to reality.

“I don’t know what you’re planning to do, and even though I’m against your plan, know that I believe in you, nya,” Kumo murmured, in a rare moment of support.

His support warmed my heart.

I took a deep breath, calming the storm inside me, and began to trace the first lines, faithfully following the description. Each word from the old cat guided my hand, as if his memories were coming to life under my fingers.

“Her eyes… deep blue, like the ocean…”

I drew eyes that seemed to shine with an inner light, an infinite depth in their gaze.

“Her fur, pure white…”

The pencil glided over the paper, capturing the purity of her silky fur.

“She had infinite grace; every movement was a dance…”

I worked on the curves of her body, trying to capture that natural elegance, that lightness.

When I finished, I remained still for a moment, contemplating my work. The result was far better than I had dared to hope.

The cat’s facial features had taken shape under my pencil, her gentle and loving expression revealed on the paper.

The drawing, though simple, captured the essence of the cat described by the old cat. A wave of joy overwhelmed me. This feeling, which I had buried for so long, returned with force.

For the first time in a long time, I felt a genuine pride—a sense of fulfillment I hadn’t known in years.