But Gus still paused at unfamiliar sounds.
So I brought my old chair into the bedroom.
The same way I had years earlier, I sat with a book and let him decide how close to come.
At first, he stayed under the bed.
Then he lay near the radiator.
One evening, I heard a soft movement beside my chair.
Gus settled on the rug, close enough that his thick fur brushed my slipper.
I kept reading.
My voice shook once. I cleared my throat and went on.
That was the part nobody in town asked about.
Not the broken lamp or the men who ran.
The slow work afterward.
The quiet evenings while he learned that the strange footsteps weren’t coming back.
Eventually, he returned to the windowsill.
Then to the blankets.
And one morning, when I came in from my walk, he was waiting in the hallway with his usual offended expression.
