[Pexel](https://www.pexels.com/search/cat/)
It began with a crash. A flowerpot broke on the front porch, and I opened the door just in time to watch a blur of fur jump over the fence. Not just any fur—striped like a tiger, but much too small. For a half-second, yellow eyes were locked on mine, then it sprinted down the street. And, from somewhere deep within, a voice in my head shouted, "Follow that cat! "
Now, I'm not one to pursue animals. I hardly run for the bus. But this cat moved as though it had a mission, almost as if it were in charge rather than simply fleeing. And something about that look it gave me... it felt personal. As if it knew something I didn't.
So I ran.
Past Mrs. Adisa's corner store, through puddles left by the morning rain, almost knocking over a cyclist. The cat never stopped. It dashed through market stands, up the hill, and beneath a rusted gate. I was sweating and panting, but couldn't stop. There was something unusual about this—something strange yet significant.
It slipped into a narrow alleyway I had never seen before, behind a bakery that smelled like old memories. When I turned the corner, it was gone, but in its stead, there was a tiny door.