As she finishes her food, she begins to clean her back leg, stretching it out, exposing her claws, and licking her fur. You try to ask her a question. She pauses, looks at you, meows, and then continues grooming herself. After a moment, she jumps down from the small ledge she was perched on and walks over to a dead tree. Old strings of lights hang from it, broken decorations dangle, and a star sits crookedly on top.

“He liked setting up a tree every year. I liked to sleep under it. You see, most cats want to jump up into the tree, and soon it comes crashing down. People laugh, people get mad, people put up barriers. Not him. He let me sleep under it. I would watch the twinkling lights and fall asleep to the safety it provided.”

You stare at the dead tree, wondering for a moment. Is she... is she like Mr. Whiskers? Dead, haunting this place, unable to let go? Maybe a guide of some sort? You ask her, and she looks back at you before walking toward you.

“I am not dead, still very much alive, very old and squeaky, as he would say.” She rubs against your leg, and you reach down to stroke her back. She arches into your touch and then walks back to the tree.

“I need something, a skirt. They used to put it under the tree. I don’t know why—maybe to catch the needles that would fall. Alas, this tree doesn’t have many needles left. I wonder if there is someone else who would have the skirt. Someone with a past.”

She continues to stare at the tree.