The cat who waited out the storm

The storm arrived just after supper. It knocked on the skylight with a thousand small knuckles, and the little black cat looked up and decided that someone ought to keep watch.

So she sat on the rug beside the lantern, very straight, very serious. The lantern glowed its warm orange, and the wave painted on its side seemed to roll a little in the light.

The rain kept knocking. The cat kept watching. Somewhere far off the thunder rumbled, turned over, and rumbled again, softer, like someone settling into bed.

“I will stay up until it stops,” the cat told the lantern. The lantern, being a lantern, said nothing, but it glowed a little warmer, which is how lanterns say of course you will.

Her ears drooped first. Then her chin. Then her tail curled round her paws all on its own.

The storm went on for hours. The cat did not see the end of it. But the lantern did, and in the morning it told no one, because some watches are best kept by whoever is still awake.