A tiny eye flutters open.
Then two.
All at once the dark world erupts in colour, light and darkness combining to create dancing shapes across the distant horizon. Colourful blocks and shapes move to the tune of the sounds around them, as though dancers in a carefully constructed orchestra.
The colours blur and change shape, as though unsure of what form to take. They focus and move and blur and focus again.
A heavy beating lies close. The calm, steady rhythm of safety and warmth.
A wriggle.
A pat.
One bleary eye takes a rest.
The transient blue gaze fixes upon its squirming companions, it does not know them yet, only as bundles of warmth and home.
One lies still.
The kitten doesn't notice.
A sharp movement shakes her from her daze. Another shape enters her world and brings with it the blinding light of another, distant place from this dark and cozy corner.
An unknown sound, soft but strange, permeates the calm rustling and mewing of kittens. The warmth is gone, the steady beating with it.
The new voice is joined by a familiar one. They speak, though the kitten knows not what of. She is too young.
Something about a rowan, something about a star.
Some cat, somewhere, is growing old.
And one cat needs to go home.
She does not know what that means. She has no concept of growing or old. She is just a kit. But she does know what home is.
The warmth returns, and settles once again by the kitten's head. This time, both bleary eyes take their rest. A smooth voice purrs a rumbling purr and a warm, rough feeling spans the kitten from tip to tail.
She mews, her companions mew back.
One does not. It will die.
But not yet.