Berlioz strolled down the empty street, his paws dampened by the wetness beneath him. The rain had finally stopped and the moon emerged from beneath the clouds. It shone brighter against a freshly cleaned sky. As the city began to sleep, the cat set off on his nightly journey through its ancient streets. As he walked, the golden light of lampposts danced through his fur. These lights warmed the streets, washing through them with a romantic glow. He made his first stop at the Cafe Louise, a quaint establishment lined with ivy. Chairs and tables were stacked outside; a light could be seen within. Berlioz made his way in, weaving his way through to a room in the back. A bowl of milk and an old woman sat waiting for him. The cat neglected the offering, favoring the woman who sat pensively on a well-worn, leather couch. He leapt to her side. Ms. Louise was a kind woman, full of love and warmth. She smelled of roses. Her sunken pale eyes and gray hair were contested by burning vivacity.

“Good evening my darling,” she exclaimed, her voice almost musical, “You are late tonight—the rain I presume.”

Her wrinkled hands enveloped Berlioz, moving him swiftly into her lap. The cat purred as she stroked his fur, a nearby clock ticking and lulling him to sleep. They sat quietly for some time and then she spoke again, softer now,

“I may not be here to welcome you the next time my love. The doctors have nothing good to say anymore.” She gazed around the room and then down at the cat, “I’ll miss you deeply my darling. You’ve made these days easier, Aida doesn’t come to see me anymore.” the cat coiled himself more tightly in her lap, purring louder. “Always a good listener,” she murmured, closing her eyes. 

When Louise had fallen asleep, Berlioz rose and moved gently from his position in her lap. He gazed up at her face, serene and bright, and then departed through the door. When he emerged from the cafe, the cold, night air struck him. It nipped at his face, his ears shuddering. The cat ran down a new road, fairly inhabited for the time of night. Couples huddled together outside a brasserie, while a street musician serenaded the street with concertos. Berlioz continued on, eventually reaching and passing the Arc de Triomphe, the massive stone structure looming over the cat. A group of laughing women in vibrant, floral dresses passed by, their shoes clicking loudly beneath them. He made his way across the roundabout surrounding the arc, causing quite a ruckus as cars halted and honked with his passing. He scampered on unscathed, continuing on his course. Berlioz found himself on a darker street, lined with small shops that sat beneath worn down apartments. The cat reached a rusted fire escape, leaping to it with steady familiarity. He climbed the iron steps, stopping at a windowsill lined with dying tulips. Berlioz entered through the window. Within, an old man sat waiting. From his nose stretched tubes, weaving their way behind his head and across the bed to a large green tank on the floor. His movements were as strained as his breathing.

“Hello my boy,” he said between breaths, “I’m glad you’re here. I have a gift for you.” He leaned slowly towards his bedside table where a stuffed mouse sat waiting. Berlioz lifted his head, eager to receive his gift. Mssr. Solal placed the mouse beside him and watched as the cat began to paw at it. 

“The flowers are dying— I suppose I should water them tomorrow.” He looked down at Berlioz who now lay on his back, the mouse resting on his stomach, “Perhaps you could water the flowers.” A chuckle emerged from his body as he lay back in bed. Berlioz rolled over and coiled himself beside Mssr. Solal. The pair lay in silence for a few minutes until a soft snore could be heard emerging from the man. Berlioz rose from his post, saying adieu to Solal and the mouse and leaping out the window. 

He hurried down the fire escape and back down the street. He ran for some time until he came upon a garden. The darkness shrouded the bright colors of well-pruned bushes and flowers of infinite assortments. Berlioz slid between the rods of the black iron gate surrounding the facility. He pressed on; lilies, hydrangeas, and carnations lining his path. Hidden behind the garden was an ancient-looking building made of stone and wrapped in ivy. He walked through an arched entryway and into a large courtyard. A sputtering fountain sat in the middle. He continued on to a corridor; a door stood ajar at the end. The cat entered into the room. Toys were strewn across the floor and a night light stamped stars onto the ceiling. In a bed in the corner sat a little girl, wide-eyed in her examination of a picture book. Berlioz hopped onto the bed and sat beside her.

“Hello kitty,” she said softly, “I missed you.” She stroked the fur on his head and then gently rubbed her own, bald and pale. Berlioz watched all of Angeline’s movements with careful observance. His head followed her hands as they turned the pages of the book. He watched her eyes carry her to the places in the pictures: Egypt, Japan, Mexico. She began to hum and he purred in harmony. The pair sat quietly until the girls eyes began flutter. “See you tomorrow kitty,” she whispered closing the book and curling up beneath the covers. When she had fallen asleep, Berlioz arose softly and made his way out. He maneuvered through orange bottles on a side table and jumped to the floor, departing quickly from the premises. He walked back through the courtyard, the garden, and the gate, setting off on the road once again.

The cat hurried down the street whose stones had begun to dry. The smell of damp Earth enveloping the cat in its aroma. He darted past buildings and down narrow alleys. His pace slowed as his destination came into sight; the rusted gates of the cemetery appeared before him. The cat’s slender body passed smoothly through the iron rods; he entered the facility. Headstones filled his sightline, their gray bodies matching the sky. He crossed the expansive lawn, the vibrant greens of the grass contrasting the somber atmosphere. Eventually, he came upon the desired headstone. The inscription read: Claude Martin, 1945-2009. He sat staring at the inscription for some time and then curled up beside the grave. He stayed for only a few minutes, Mssr. Martin was already sleeping.