And the City Slept Beneath Part 4 The nights grew cooler. The rain was gone, but the air now held that special clarity that only comes just before winter—when the world pauses before going to sleep. The cat and the man spent more time together. Never much. Never planned. Sometimes she sat on the roof again, and he sat on the ridge next to her, speaking softly, if at all. Sometimes they met on the paths between the houses, like two ghosts revealing themselves in the silence of the city. And sometimes she lay outside his door when he came home late, as if to make sure he found his way back. She didn't speak. He didn't ask. But there was a bond stretching—quiet, warm, unbreakable. One evening, when the sky was so clear you could almost hear the stars breathing, it happened. He sat in his old armchair in front of the open balcony door, a glass of red wine in his hand, his diary open on the table. The cat lay curled up at his feet, very close, quite naturally. "Do you know what she wrote at the end?" he asked. The cat opened one eye. "'When I'm gone, maybe something of me will remain in the silence. In the dust on the bookshelf. In a cat at your feet. Maybe that's enough.'" He was silent. Then: "And maybe... it really is enough." The wind blew gently over the rooftops. The city breathed in its nighttime calm. A child laughed somewhere in its sleep. A dog barked in the distance. Life. Very quiet, very real. The man stood up, went inside the apartment, and left the balcony door open. Just a crack. The cat didn't look at him. But she heard him. How he adjusted an old pillow. How he poured water into a bowl. And then nothing. She lay in front of the armchair for a while. The moon was high, the sky shimmered. She remembered. Warmth. Closeness. The feeling that someone was waiting. Then she stood up. Slowly. Dignified. The man was already sitting on the sofa again, a book in his hand, his eyes half-closed. She lay down at his feet again. No words. Only the present. And while outside, night fell over the city like a silken sheet, the cat closed its eyes. Perhaps that was exactly what happiness was: Knowing that you are no longer alone.