The pane stood open.

The broken latch hung crooked against the frame.

A pale smear marked the glass where Oliver’s paws had been.

Daniel stopped for a moment.

Without the cat, the window looked smaller.

He could see how little space had separated them at the beginning, and how much effort that distance had required.

Mara came alongside him.

“Vet’s got him,” she said.

He nodded.

It was good news.

It was not yet the news he wanted.

At the clinic, Ruth sat with her phone in both hands.

Someone had offered her water. She could not remember whether she had drunk it.

Her house was damaged. She would need somewhere to sleep. There were calls to make and questions she could not yet answer.

Every thought returned to the same small figure beneath a towel.

A veterinarian came to speak with her.

Oliver was receiving care and would need monitoring. It was too early for promises.

Ruth listened carefully.

She asked what she needed to sign.

Then she asked whether he had been frightened.

The veterinarian answered gently, bringing the conversation back to how he was doing now.

Ruth nodded again.

She knew there were questions no one could answer for her.

What she wanted most was simple.

She wanted another ordinary morning with him.

The update reached the station the following day.

Oliver had made it through the night.

Daniel read the message twice.

A photograph followed later: the orange tabby resting on clean bedding, eyes open, a familiar white patch bright beneath his chin.

He was still under care.

He looked tired.

He looked like a cat who might someday object to an empty food bowl again.

Mara leaned over Daniel’s shoulder.

“That’s him?”

“That’s him.”

She smiled and returned to what she had been doing.

Daniel kept the photograph open a little longer.

He could still remember the empty sill.

Now he had another image to place beside it.

Ruth brought Oliver home several days later, though home was temporarily her sister’s spare room.

She followed the veterinarian’s instructions and kept his world quiet.

His carrier stood open beside the bed. His bowl sat where he could find it easily. A familiar blanket, recovered from a cupboard away from the worst damage, lay folded in a warm corner.

At first, he stayed close to it.

Ruth did not rush him.

She sat on the floor with a book she barely read.

Sometimes he slept. Sometimes he watched the door. Once, he rose and walked toward her, then changed his mind halfway and returned to the blanket.

On the second evening, he placed one paw on her knee.

She set the book down.