I would like to begin by stating, for the record, that looking for a possibly omniscient cat is much harder than it sounds.

  This is mostly because no one, at any point, gives you useful instructions like:

  Turn left at the glowing paradox.

  Instead, what you get is Lots standing next to you with a thoughtful expression and saying things like,

  “Well… cats like warm places.”

  “That’s regular cats,” I replied. “We are not looking for a regular cat. We are looking for the cat that relocated me across realities.”

  Lots considered this. “Warmth is still statistically promising.”

  So that was how, against my better judgment, our investigation began.

  Our first stop was a bakery.

  This was not because we had evidence.

  This was because the bakery was warm and smelled like cinnamon, and Lots insisted that “if I were a cosmic cat, I would absolutely supervise pastry production.”

  I did not have a counterargument strong enough to deny myself breakfast.

  We sat near the window, watching people come and go, half-expecting at any moment for a mysterious feline to leap onto the counter and dispense enlightenment along with change.

  Nothing happened.

  A perfectly normal cat did wander in at one point.

  It accepted a piece of bread crust from the baker, stared at us for a moment with complete disinterest, and left.

  “…That one didn’t feel omniscient,” Lots said.

  “No,” I agreed. “That one felt like it pays no taxes and fears nothing.”

  After that, we tried the canal.

  Then a rooftop garden.

  Then a library, because Lots reasoned that “any being involved in narrative mechanics would appreciate books.”

  We found several extremely comfortable chairs.

  We did not find a cat.

  At one point I climbed halfway up a hill because I thought I saw a tail disappear behind a stone wall.

  It was a scarf.

  Someone’s scarf.

  (Sorry for the misunderstanding Mr. Scarf)

  “You’re overthinking,” Lots told me later as we walked through a quiet street lined with trees that I vaguely remembered designing because I liked how sunlight filtered through leaves.

  “I am not overthinking,” I said. “I am trying to apply logic to an illogical situation.”

  “That’s overthinking with extra steps.”

  I stopped walking.

  “Do you have a better plan?”

  Lots nodded confidently.

  “We ask people.”

  “…Ask people what?”

  “If they’ve seen anything unusual.”

  I stared at him.

  “In this world?” I asked. “Where everything is legally required to be pleasant?”

  “Yes.”

  “That is the least specific question imaginable.”

  “It’s still data.”

  I sighed.

  It was, technically, still data

  So we asked.

  And people, being themselves, answered very earnestly.

  A florist told us she had once seen a cat sitting very still for a long time, “as if contemplating the ethics of sunlight.”

  A musician said a cat had watched him rehearse for an hour and then left “at the exact moment I got the melody right, which felt like approval.”

  A child informed us that all cats were mysterious and we should not rush them.

  None of this helped.

  All of it somehow felt adjacent to helping.

  By midday, we had accumulated:

  No cat.

  Three snacks we hadn’t intended to eat.

  A growing sense that we were doing this wrong.

  Lots did not look discouraged.

  If anything, he seemed fascinated.

  “You know,” he said, “for something we’re supposedly searching for, it doesn’t feel like we’re getting closer or farther away.”

  “That’s because we’re not on a path,” I replied. “We’re wandering.”

  “Exactly.”

  Enjoying the story? Show your support by reading it on the official site.

  “That’s not encouraging.”

  We sat down again—this time on a bench overlooking the canal.

  I watched the water move in slow, steady patterns.

  The world felt… normal.

  Not hiding anything.

  Not revealing anything.

  Just continuing.

  “I thought this would be dramatic,” I admitted.

  Lots leaned back, hands behind his head. “Why?”

  “Because meeting the being that brought me here feels like it should involve at least one glowing effect.”

  “Maybe you’re expecting the world to behave like a story,” he said.

  I opened my mouth to respond.

  Then stopped.

  Because that was exactly what I had been doing.

  We stayed there longer than planned.

  Not discussing strategy.

  Not searching.

  Just sitting.

  People passed by.

  Someone waved.

  A pair of students argued gently about architecture.

  A breeze moved across the canal, carrying the sound of distant laughter.

  Nothing extraordinary happened.

  And yet…

  Something felt like it had shifted.

  Not outside.

  Inside the way I was waiting.

  Or rather—

  The way I had stopped waiting.

  Eventually, Lots reached for his device again.

  “Alright,” he said. “Let’s try this.”

  “I thought we agreed the app wouldn’t help.”

  “We didn’t try the help section.”

  “That’s because help sections never help.”

  He ignored me and started scrolling.

  Then paused.

  “…Huh.”

  I immediately distrusted that sound.

  “What did you find?”

  “I don’t know yet,” he admitted. “But this looks relevant.”

  He turned the screen toward me.

  At the top of the page was a title that felt both incredibly ordinary and deeply suspicious.

  Need Help Locating a Cat?

  I blinked.

  “…That can’t be real.”

  Lots scrolled.

  “It appears to be.”

  Below the title was a short description:

  If you are attempting to identify a specific cat and are unsure where to begin,

  please answer the following questions to refine your search.

  “That’s it?” I asked.

  “No cosmic warnings. No metaphysical disclaimers.”

  “It’s formatted like customer support,” Lots said.

  I didn’t know whether to be relieved or offended.

  He tapped the first question.

  What does the cat look like?

  We both stared at it.

  “That’s… a very normal place to start,” Lots said.

  “Yes,” I agreed slowly. “Uncomfortably normal.”

  There were selectable traits:

  Fur Color

  Size

  Distinctive Features

  General Presence

  “…General presence?” I read aloud.

  “What does that even mean?” Lots wondered.

  We tried to remember.

  It turned out recalling the appearance of a reality-altering cat was harder than expected.

  “It was… a cat,” I said.

  “Very helpful.”

  “It looked like it knew things.”

  “That is not a physical characteristic.”

  We debated whether “unreasonably composed” counted as a feature.

  The next question appeared.

  Is the cat capable of communication?

  We both paused.

  “…Yes?” Lots said.

  “I mean, technically.”

  “Technically?”

  “It talked,” I said. “But not like talking-talking. More like it had already decided what I was going to understand.”

  Lots nodded slowly. “So… conversational, but unsettling.”

  “That’s a category?”

  “It is now.”

  Another prompt appeared.

  Is this cat related to your arrival in this world?

  Neither of us answered immediately.

  We just looked at the screen.

  Then at each other.

  Then back at the screen again.

  “…That feels like an important question,” Lots said.

  “Yeah,” I agreed. “It does.”

  At the bottom of the form, a note appeared:

  This feature is available only to applicable users.

  Lots frowned. “Applicable how?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “But I’m starting to think this isn’t something residents can even see.”

  We hadn’t noticed it before.

  Because we hadn’t been looking.

  We sat there quietly for a moment, the unfinished form still open between us.

  The canal moved the same way it always had.

  The world didn’t react.

  Didn’t signal.

  Didn’t change.

  It just… allowed us to be there.

  “I don’t think we were supposed to find this right away,” I said.

  Lots smiled faintly.

  “No,” he agreed. “I think we were supposed to understand why we were looking first.”