I saw it—glowing eyes staring at me from beneath the bed. My heart skipped a beat as I jerked back, nearly hitting the nightstand. For a moment, I froze, pulse racing, trying to process what I had just seen.

Murphy, my dog, stood alert, not frightened. His steady gaze gave me the courage to look again. Slowly, I leaned down and squinted into the shadows. There, nestled in the darkness, was a small, fluffy cat. Its eyes, once intimidating, blinked curiously.

A cat? In my house?

I sat back in disbelief. I didn’t own a cat, and none of my neighbors did either. How had it gotten in? Maybe through the back door the night before.

The tabby crept out—graceful, healthy-looking, with a swirl of gray and brown fur and a white patch on its chest. It stretched and yawned like it belonged here. Murphy watched calmly, tail wagging.

“Hey there, little one,” I whispered, extending a hand. The cat sniffed cautiously.

In the kitchen, I found tuna and set it out. The cat ate delicately, as dawn cast a golden hue over the room.

I didn’t know where it came from—but for now, it felt like it belonged.