The Bird Who Ate Echoes

I arrived on a Tuesday, though Tuesdays do not exist in my hometown. I was born inside a thundercloud, learned to fly backward, and only later figured out how to blink. The cat looked at me and said, “You are not a bird.” I said, “And you are not a cat.” That was how our friendship began.

I do not eat seeds. I eat echoes. The cat prefers shadows. Together, we hunt forgotten sounds: old door creaks, ghost laughter, lost names, and promises that snapped in the dark. Sometimes, when the moon hangs crooked, he lets me ride on his back while we walk across the ceiling.

The squirrels below never look up. They still believe gravity is in charge. One night, the cat gave me a small shining key and said, “Do not lose this. It opens Thursday.” I keep it under my tongue, where all important things belong.

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