Later, it turned out that Anka had most likely jumped off the windowsill incorrectly. Painkillers, rest, observation. Again, nothing life-threatening. But when Marta returned from the vet that evening with him and carefully placed him on a blanket, Arlo stayed with him all night.
Not next to him.
With him.
So close that their bodies formed one peaceful line.
Marta lay and looked at them for a long time.
For the first time she didn’t think: I just hope I don’t lose you.
She thought: How lucky we are that you exist.
It sounds similar, but it’s not the same.
One grows out of fear.
The second is out of gratitude.
Between Christmas and New Year’s, Anka once again took over every spot in the apartment, whether it was his or not. Arlo was less likely to be disturbed. A neighbor came over for coffee one afternoon and stayed for almost two hours.
Marta’s sister asked if she would come to New Year’s dinner.
In the past, Marta probably would have refused. Out of fatigue. Out of convenience. Out of that old instinct to stick to a tight schedule, to keep anything from pulling her along.
This time she said she would come.
The strangest thing wasn’t even that she went.
Only that she was happy at the thought of returning home.
On New Year’s Day, shortly before midnight, she was sitting on the couch. Fireworks were going off somewhere far outside. Arlo lifted his head for a moment, the loud sounds still not entirely safe for him. Anka just blinked lazily, as if he found humanity’s behavior generally reprehensible.
Marta placed one hand on each of them.
She thought about the day at the shelter. About that single movement with which Arlo embraced his brother. About the weight of Anka in his arms. About the moment she realized that reason was sometimes just another word for fear.
She went then because she wanted something quiet. Something predictable. Something that didn’t cost too much and didn’t require too much.
She got scratches on the sofa, fur on her clothes, double vet bills, a seized pillow, and two brothers who reminded her daily that life doesn’t heal by being cut into smaller and smaller pieces.
It heals when something can enter it again.
A few days later, Marta went to the shelter again.
This time it’s not to tell someone what they’re looking for.
In the passenger seat, she had a bag of blankets and a framed photo of Anka and Arl that her sister had taken on New Year’s Day. The two of them were lying close together, as usual, as if there was no reasonable reason in the world to keep their distance.
The woman at the front desk recognized her immediately.
“So?” she asked. “How are the brothers?”
Marta put the photo on the counter.
The woman looked at them and smiled again, that tired, quiet smile Marta remembered from her first visit.
“They look like they’ve arrived home,” she said.
Marta wanted to just nod. Instead, she heard her own voice.
– I guess me too.
On the way back, the apartment was no longer the place she was going to.
It was her home.
When she opened the door, Anka stepped forward with a low, reproachful sound, as if she’d kept him waiting for an unreasonably long time. Arlo stood behind him, winking at her, ever more cautious, ever more gentle.
Marta put down her bag, took off her shoes and closed the door.
Then she heard those small, completely ordinary sounds again.
Paws on the floor. A short snort. A soft rustle as two cats try to share the best spot on the blanket.
In the past, she would have considered this a trifle.
Today he knows that a good life often begins this way.
Not from something big.
Only from two brothers who will not let themselves be separated.
And from the apartment where finally someone is waiting for you.
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