By five in the afternoon, the last patron leaves the café.

  The staff only need to clean up before heading home — or off to another part-time job.

  Ellie lets out a breath of relief as the door chimes shut behind the final customer.

  Despite witnessing Madam Odette’s strange act of sprinkling powder into her drink, there had been no scene. No accusation. No eyes turning toward Ellie.

  That, at least, was something.

  After cleaning, Ellie returns to the storeroom and picks up her backpack and water bottle.

  Her next stop is the fish mart near her flat.

  She has been craving fish for days now.

  Outside, the sky hangs low and dull, smudged with pale orange and dusty grey.

  Not quite evening. Not quite day.

  She walks down the narrow street toward the fish mart.

  The pavement is uneven, stained with oil and old rain.

  Bicycles lean lazily against the walls, their wheels slightly askew.

  Ellie sidesteps them without thinking.

  Then, just ahead, the familiar sign of the fish mart comes into view.

  Mr. Finley, the owner, spots her and waves.

  “Hi Ellie, you’re early today.”

  Ellie lowers her head and returns the gesture — a small, barely-there flick of her fingers.

  She walks past him without a word, straight to the display trays.

  Her eyes land on the third tray from the left.

  There it is — her favourite fish.

  She can never remember its name, no matter how many times Mr. Finley tells her.

  And just like always, it has been tucked behind the others.

  But she knows it. That dull, greyish skin, the way its cloudy eyes refuse to meet hers. The skin just beginning to wrinkle.

  He is hiding it again.

  The good one.

  Ellie can almost imagine its taste — strong, fermented, lingering.

  She picks it up and walks to the cashier.

  “Hi, Ellie,” says Mr. Finley — the middle-aged man with a greying beard and eyes that always seem to linger a little too long.

  Here it comes again. The incessant greeting.

  Ellie does not respond this time.

  Mr. Finley clears his throat when he sees the fish in her hand.

  “That one is a bit old. Not fresh. Maybe try this batch?”

  He gestures to a newer pile — pinker, cleaner, without the heavy scent she craves.

  She glances at him, then back at the fish.

  “I like this one,” she says flatly.

  There is a pause. The man hesitates.

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  “You sure? It is… well, not exactly at its best.”

  Ellie smiles. Or at least tries to.

  “I’ll take it,” she says, pointing precisely at the dull-eyed fish.

  He wraps it in paper without another word — but she catches the look he throws toward the back of the store.

  Like someone else should be watching this.

  As she walks out, she feels it — his gaze, sticking to her back like oil.

  Mr. Finley’s stare always makes her uncomfortable.

  Ellie walks back to her flat, about half a mile from the fish mart. Her flat sits on the third floor of an ageing walk-up.

  The flat itself is small — a bedroom, a bathroom, and a space just wide enough for a faded sofa and a low table with water rings etched into the wood. The walls are thin; she can hear the neighbour’s dog scratching at the floor.

  Ellie begins preparing her dinner.

  She never guts the fish. She never does.

  Something about leaving it whole feels more complete. More true.

  In the pan, the oil hisses as she drops the fish in. The skin blisters, the edges start to curl.

  Then the smell blooms — thick and pungent.

  It smells like salt and metal. She breathes it in like incense.

  The dog next door stops scratching, as if he too has paused to embrace the sharp tang of the fish.

  Ellie finishes her dinner in half the time it took to cook.

  Afterwards, she sits quietly by the window in her mostly empty living room. Her eyes wander out the window and stop at the sky — deep, suffocating black.

  It is almost eight in the evening.

  Then, the light in her living room flickers. Once. Twice. But it does not go out.

  Ellie blinks.

  Then she blinks again.

  The sky outside now looks like a blank ceiling. No stars. No moon. Just hollow space.

  But it feels like the sky is whispering to her — summoning her closer.

  She presses against the window ledge of her tiny flat, then leaps.

  The third floor vanishes beneath her as she lands with a soft thud on the pavement.

  The street is empty, lined with dark houses and shuttered windows. The streetlights flicker like the one in her living room, spilling orange halos onto the road, standing in for the moon in all that blackness.

  She pads forward. And then she sees it.

  Her claws click softly on the concrete.

  And it is then that she catches her reflection in a puddle.

  Wide yellow eyes. Sleek black fur.

  No trace of Ellie.

  Yet somehow, it is still her.

  ==================================================================

  When Ellie wakes up again, she is in her bed.

  She has not the slightest idea how she ended up there.

  The last thing she remembers is staring out at the night sky.

  Then she remembers the dream.

  The dream of the cat.

  It had been a long time since she last dreamt of it. There was a period when she kept having the same dream — of being a cat. Every day.

  She once told her mother about it, back when she was still alive.

  Her mother would just shrug and say, it is only a dream.

  But now she has dreamt it again.

  Still, the clock on her wall warns her not to spend too long thinking about it.

  She rushes into the bathroom to freshen up.

  Despite being thirty minutes late, Ellie does not rush to the Third Place.

  She walks past the fish mart and can still taste the strong, pungent flavour of last night’s fish.

  Then she stops in front of the café.

  There are customers inside.

  Today is less busy than usual.

  The door chimes as Ellie pushes it open and steps in.

  She immediately spots a familiar figure — the café owner.

  Tilda.

  Fifty years old, with grey hair always tied in a loose bun.

  She had once been Ellie’s neighbour — hers and her mother’s — and after her mother passed away, Tilda quietly stepped in to look after her.

  Tilda’s back is to the door, and Sam is speaking to her in a furious whisper.

  “She didn’t show up for work and didn’t bother to inform anyone!” Sam spits, unaware that someone has entered the café.

  She continues, “Why do we need to put up with her behaviour? Just fire—”

  That is when Sam catches sight of Ellie.

  Her words cut off mid-sentence.

  Her eyes narrow slightly. Her jaw tightens.

  She looks at Ellie the way someone looks at a cracked cup still sitting on the shelf — technically intact, but just one bump away from shattering.

  “There she is, after disappearing for a day,” Sam mutters.

  Then she turns away and gets back to work.

  Tilda turns around. A familiar, warm smile hangs on her face — too still, too rehearsed.

  It is the kind of smile that makes everyone feel like she’s someone’s favourite aunt.

  But to Ellie, it sends a chill down her spine.

  “Morning, Ellie,” Tilda says, the same smile plastered across her face.