And so it sits quietly there, unassuming and non-descript.

I had been fearful that it would shout and draw too much attention to itself, and then I’d have to fumble for an explanation to those it cried out to. But it was quite quiet, almost as if humbly accepting whatever happened to it, such that I did not know whether to be glad or to be disappointed.

It never put on airs, never demanded anything, never seemed to ask for more. And yet if I forgot it was there, it would remind me of its presence with a little scratch or by catching on to my clothes, as if to ensure I would always be conscious of its closeness. It seemed to just belong where it sat, as if that had been its rightful place all along. Indeed its very contentment made me doubt it had made its home there barely a week ago.

It was nice just to admire it, to have unspoken conversations together. Sometimes I’d observe it from the side without it knowing, then when it saw that I was looking, it would smile shyly and wink at me, which never failed to make me smile too.

And yet in spite of its belonging, and in spite of our private exchanges, it sometimes felt foreign to me, and I would wonder if I knew it at all – perhaps I had dreamt it all? But then, there it is again, assuring me in its subtle, simple weight. “I’m here to stay,” it seemed to say, as it snuggled closer to my finger and gripped it.