We are quite suddenly alone.
The wind sighs quietly as it winds its weary way; it lifts my fur like the caress of gentle fingers. On that wind, there is a sense of something, though I know not what. It is always there. Always…
I look into the light as the sun bleeds into the horizon – another day done. There is something of comfort there. Just as there is something like comfort to be found in the strong tom that stands beside me and watches the sunset with me.
I find that I do not quite know what to do with myself. There is comfort here, but that is foreign to me. As it thrills me, it frightens me.
It is too light here, it is too much for me. I am frightened, I wish to leave, to hide in the shadows again. And he changes it all with a smile and a glance. I wish to stay, I will stay here forever. Only for him will I dare this light.
Doubt comes again in the blink of an eye. It is difficult, so difficult for me to believe that someone like him could be content with someone like me. I am different from him. From them, his people, my people. Too different. I am afraid again. And again he makes it well. This time it takes a small touch, a few murmured words, before I feel all right.
I collect shadows. I have always done so, it is almost second-nature to me. Wherever I go, it is always shadows and outcasts and anger. And fear. I have had no room in my life for anything else, just the shadows. Always the shadows. Only the shadows.