The cat on the warm windowsill

High above an old city, in a room at the top of a narrow house, there was a windowsill that caught the last of the day’s warmth. The stone had been in the sun all afternoon, and even now, as evening deepened into night, it held that heat the way a loaf holds the heat of the oven. And on the windowsill, as she did every evening, lay a cat.

She was a soft grey cat with white paws and a white tip to her tail, and she had no particular name, though the woman who lived in the room called her Dusk, because that was when she usually appeared. She had come in over the rooftops, as she always did, stepping lightly along the tiles and the old stone gutters, and had arranged herself on the sill with great care.

From up here, she could see the whole old city spread out below. The roofs were tiled in faded red and brown, and they climbed and tumbled over each other down the hill toward the river. Chimneys stood among them like small quiet sentries. Here and there a window glowed yellow, and in some of them she could see people moving, setting tables or drawing curtains or reading in chairs.

Down in the square, the old lamps made soft pools of light on the cobblestones. A few people walked slowly home. Someone was playing a slow tune on an accordion, far away, and the notes came up over the rooftops faint and sweet, as if they had drifted a long way.

The cat blinked slowly. She tucked her white paws under her chest, one and then the other, and settled a little lower onto the warm stone.

Behind her, inside the room, the woman was moving about quietly. The cat could hear the soft clink of a spoon in a cup, and the rustle of pages, and the creak of a chair taking someone’s weight. There was a smell of warm bread and of the geraniums in their pot on the sill beside her, green and a little peppery. The room was lit by one low lamp, and its light fell golden across the cat’s grey back.

The bells in the old tower by the river began to ring the hour. They rang slowly, deep and round, and each note seemed to hang in the air a long time before it faded. The cat’s ears turned toward them, and then turned back, and then relaxed.

Nine. Ten. The bells stopped. The last note floated out over the rooftops and was gone.

The city was growing quiet now. One by one, the yellow windows went dark. The accordion had stopped. The cobblestones in the square were empty and shining. The river moved slowly under its bridges, carrying the reflection of the lamps.

The woman came to the window and ran her hand once down the cat’s back, from her ears to the tip of her tail. The cat began to purr, a low soft rumble that seemed to fill the whole windowsill.

“Goodnight, little one,” the woman said, and she left the window open a hand’s width, so the cat could come and go as she pleased.

But the cat did not want to go anywhere. The stone was warm beneath her. The lamp was warm behind her. Her purr grew slower, and quieter, and slower.

Her eyes became two thin lines. Then they closed.

Above the old city, on the warm windowsill, the cat curled her tail over her nose and slept.