Rey woke to the soft sound of purring.
Beans was curled on his chest, a warm little stone of fur and muscle, vibrating with quiet purpose. She blinked at him slowly, then pressed a paw to his face, as if to say you're late.
He groaned softly and sat up.
The morning was gray, not quite cold, the kind of light that made the world feel paused. Rey shuffled to the kitchen, Beans weaving through his ankles with practiced grace. He filled the teapot - blue - and set it on the stove. The flame clicked to life.
He didn't speak much, but he found himself narrating to Beans more often lately.
"You know," he said, pouring her food into the tiny ceramic dish shaped like a fish, "you've become very entitled for someone who used to hiss at me."
Beans ignored him, as always, tail flicking. Her presence wasn't loud. It was consistent. Comforting. She had come into his life the way most important things did — by accident, and then by necessity.
They had kept each other alive in the quiet months.
After feeding her and watering his sad little spider plant, Rey opened the curtains. The light was soft, not punishing. He didn't check his phone. Didn't need the reminders of what he hadn't done, hadn't answered, hadn't become.
Instead, he sat at the table and sipped his tea.
The taste was the same — floral, faintly earthy — but there was a warmth in his chest that stayed longer than it should have. Last night's dream tugged at him.
He remembered the orchard. The trees like silver bones. The sound of pouring.
And the strange, steady voice:
"You asked. You were heard."
He didn't know what it meant. But he didn't feel afraid. If anything, he felt… noticed. Seen, in a way that didn't require him to perform or explain.
Beans jumped onto the table — something she was not supposed to do — and stared at him.
"You gonna lecture me?" he murmured. "Thought not."
He scratched her behind the ears, and she leaned into his hand with a satisfied grunt.
That afternoon, while sorting through old mail and half-hearted to-do lists, Rey found his sketchbook. The pages were stiff. The cover was worn at the edges.
He opened it to a half-finished drawing: Beans, mid-yawn.
Without thinking, he picked up a pencil and started to finish it.
He didn't get far. The lines were awkward. His wrist ached. But for the first time in a year, the act of creating didn't feel like a memory. It felt like possibility.
That night, he didn't dream. But he slept a little deeper.
And in the morning, the kettle waited patiently on the stove. Beans curled on his lap. And Rey sat in the warm stillness of his small kitchen, with no answers, no big plans.
Just the gentle truth that some things stay — even when the world doesn't.