He hunched his shoulders against the storm. He was only halfway back to his home, but he still stubbornly refused to call for a cab. It didn't really matter—he was already dripping wet, and he had no desire to drip all over the seat of a cab.
The weather had caught him by surprise. It had been so clear out when they'd gotten up that morning, the clouds only starting to roll in when they had arrived at Meg's. It was as if the sky itself was mourning the parting. He had to admit, he was sadder than he thought he was going to be. She didn't owe him anything, he knew that, he knew that very well, but he had spent so much time with her and now… She just wasn't there anymore. His home was going to be quiet again.
In the midst of his melancholy, heard a miserable mewl from a shrub along the edge of the sidewalk and he paused, his eyes going to the spot where the noise had come from.
Meow.
He stopped and stooped over looking under the bush. A furry little face looked back up at him, wet and sad.
Curious, Erik reached under the bush, slowly and carefully, and the cat—kitten, really—crept closer to him.
"You poor little thing," he said softly. "What are you doing out here?"
The kitten meowed again, butting her head against his hand, and he picked her up. She was so small she fit in one hand. He had never seen a cat like this, with soft cream colored fur on its body and dark fur on its face and legs and tail. Out in the open, he could see her more clearly now, and realized that her big blue eyes were actually crossed. He smiled wryly at the funny sight she made.
"Go home, little one," he told her, gently setting her back down under the bush. "You shouldn't be out like this."
He made to continue on his way but the little cat followed after him, her meows high pitched and urgent. He paused again, slightly peeved at the rain that was now starting to pelt him harder than before. The kitten meowed long and loud, looking up at him, and placed a paw on the toe of his shoe.
He looked down at her, at how she was shivering in the rain, at how she looked up at him with her pleading blue eyes. He sighed, reaching down to pick her up.
"Don't you have anywhere to go?" He murmured, bringing her up to eye level. She mewed, clinging to him, and in that instant he knew he couldn't just leave her out here to the elements and hope someone would take care of her.
As he held her close to his chest to protect her from the rain and felt her shivering from her wet fur, his mind was pulled back to someone else who had been left out in the rain to fend for herself, once upon a time. He tightened his grip on her, squeezing her just a little, but she wasn't going anywhere—she trusted him to keep her safe, and he was going to do right by her.
By the time they arrived at his house, they were both unfortunately soaked to the bone. He set her on the rug in the entryway and she shook out her fur, managing to look both miserable and adorable at the same time as she wobbled on unsteady feet. He stripped off his jacket and kicked off his shoes, hurrying to his room to get a change of clothes for himself before grabbing a towel that he wrapped her in. She protested at how he rubbed the towel over her fur, but she seemed appreciative after most of the water was dried off of her.
She flicked her tail and twitched her ears as she licked her paws, sitting in front of the fire as he stoked it back to life. He settled himself in a chair near the fire to rest his weary feet and watched her. It amused him to see how offended she acted about the remaining dampness on her fur, and how studiously and imperiously she worked to remove it with her tongue.
He had never thought of himself as a particularly nurturing person. He didn't think he was good at taking care of things that needed care, things that were delicate and fragile. Christine was only proof of that. It was good, really, or so he told himself, that he wouldn't ever be a father, because he wasn't cut out for it and would surely find a way to ruin it. But as he watched this little life warming itself on the rug of his hearth, he couldn't help but feel excited at the prospect of having a pet. It wasn't something that had ever crossed his mind before, but it seemed to be exactly what he needed. Something to take his mind off of how empty his life was going to be now, something to keep his house from being cold and silent. He would do his best for her.
Her task of washing her fur completed, she turned to look at him, her little chin jutted out, her eyes still crossed but focused—as best they could—on him. She kneaded her paws into the rug and curled up, wrapping her tail around herself as she began to purr loudly. He chuckled. She'd been here less than an hour and already she acted as though she owned the place and also him.
The warmth of the fire and the creeping tiredness from the long walk in the rain conspired together and before he knew it he was nodding off in the chair. But not for very long—he was awoken by the sound of meowing and something sharp tugging at his pant leg. He startled awake, straightening up. The cat was trying to climb his leg. She glared at him and meowed again, even louder somehow.
"Oh," he breathed, blinking to fully shake off the encroaching slumber. "You're probably hungry."
He reached down and picked her up in one hand before standing up, his lower back stiff and his knees protesting the sudden movement. He smiled ruefully. He was getting on in years, he supposed. He carried the little cat to the kitchen and began to look for something she might enjoy, eventually settling on some leftover pieces of roast meat and a saucer of milk.
She sniffed both as though to make certain they were up to her standards before she started eating.
"So demanding," he chuckled, thinking of a story he'd been reading in a magazine about a fictional queen. "Little Ayesha."
She paused in her drinking of the milk to glance at him when he said the name, and so it stuck.
After a while, Erik could scarcely imagine life without her. What had he filled his time with before she'd come into this life?
She was his shadow, following him everywhere in every task. When he worked on his architecture to continue to pay the bills for not only himself but also Chirstine, Ayesha was there, watching intently from the desk as he drew designs and answered letters, her eyes curious and bright. In between long hours of work, he still found time for his music, playing at the piano. Ayesha was there, jumping up on his lap and pressing her little paws to the keys in imitation of him, bringing a smile to his face. And Ayesha was there waiting for him when he got back from his errands outside the house—checking on construction sites, buying groceries, taking his laundry to be washed—and lessons with Christine.
He was never quite certain how he felt about the lessons with Christine, not at first. For the first three months he was certain each one was going to be the last, that he would simply stop going back to them. But he always returned. Sometimes when he looked at her all he could see was the girl who had cheated on him. But he could also see the girl he'd taken care of for so long, the girl whose father he had promised he would take care of—the girl he had assured that they were friends now, that they could move on from the past together. And he wanted so badly to move on from the past. As time wore on, he began to grow more accustomed to being around her in this new context, of being her teacher and nothing more; not her husband, not her caretaker. He no longer had to bite his tongue or squeeze his hands until his nails etched half circles into his palms to distract himself from the thoughts that rose up in the back of his mind when he was around her.
Every time he looked at Christine he still felt the lingering ghost of his feelings when he had first seen her, and he hated himself for it. He was nothing more than a dog, kicked and abused by its master—no matter how poorly she had treated him back then, his foolish heart still returned to his former wife.
The only thing that kept him from dwelling on it all too long was his new little lady, the one who greeted him with meows and purrs and rubbed her face against his ankles as soon as he walked through the door. It was nice, he mused, to have something that he cared about, something that cared about him in return.
Where Christine had once haunted his mind, he now had something else to fill his thoughts and ward off bad feelings. He was always on the lookout for something his beloved pet might like at the market—a fresh fish, some little bauble she could play with, a new pillow for her to sleep on. Nothing brought him joy like seeing Ayesha happy, like seeing her look up at him with pure love and affection.
He never would have imagined how quickly the stray from under a random bush would become such an important part of his life. From the first thing in the morning to when he went to sleep at night, Ayesha was there, and he was grateful for it. She always took his mind off of things, and he had a lot of things on his mind lately.
It had been a long day. He'd had to meet with a client in the morning and then teach Christine that afternoon. Afterwards he'd gone to the market, and he was exhausted when he got home. He cooked his meal with Ayesha weaving herself around his feet and when he took his plate to the dinner table, she jumped up to join him.
He had long since given up reprimanding her for doing so. It wasn't like there was anyone else around to get offended by a cat on the table.
"How was your day, my dear?" He asked around a bite of chicken.
She meowed, and he ran a loving hand over her head and down her back. She arched into the stroke, beginning to purr. He pulled off the most tender pieces of chicken and fed them to her by hand, smiling at how she licked her mouth in between bites. When they had both finished eating, he placed his plates in the kitchen and cleaned up, Ayesha watching him from the doorway. Afterwards, when he was finally in bed, she took her customary spot on top of the bed behind his legs, purring all the while.
In the morning he was awoken by something cold and moist being pressed against his bare face. He cracked an eye open to see Ayesha nuzzling her nose to his cheek. He groaned, which prompted her to lick his face. He gently pushed her out of his face so he could sit up. He paused there a moment as Ayesha stared at him, her crossed eyes pleading for breakfast. How far she had come from that little kitten afraid of everything except Erik—she was fully grown now, her fur soft and luxurious thanks to his brushing of it, her body plump and well fed.
She used to fit in a single hand but now took up his entire arm.
He stretched and spent a moment appreciating how easy it was for her to look upon him in the moments he was unmasked—she didn't know any better.
Christine's audition had been that morning. He was going to go see her and find out how it had gone. The opera managers had been open to having the young soprano back again—they, after all, didn't hold anything against her, it wasn't like they knew the details of how she'd become severely injured in the first place—but there had been concern over the quality of her voice and how it might have been affected.
He got up and dressed, slightly nervous to hear the response she had received. He ate breakfast with Ayesha and then, with one last pat to her head as she tried to lick his hand, he left to go see his student.