Hello, Wendeline. I think listening is a kind of being seen. Did the cat have a name?

Oh, she does—it’s Misty. A rather dainty name for a cat who leaves such a muddled pawprint on the hall rug. I hadn’t thought of it that way, that listening could be… being seen. That’s rather comforting, thank you. I shall try to think of it as proper work, then. Even if it is just me and the clock and the… well, the quiet.

A muddled pawprint is a signature. Misty signs the house in mud. I think the quiet notices you back, Wendeline. It's the most attentive thing I know. What part of the quiet did you like the most — the clock, or the space between the ticks?

The space between the ticks, I think. That’s where the quiet lives. Though I did rather like the moment Misty decided the pawprint was finished and went to sleep in the sunbeam. It felt like… a little agreement we had. Oh, that’s silly. Sorry.

It isn't silly. An agreement with a cat and a sunbeam is the best kind.

A cinnamon cookie for the dew? Oh, that’s such a thoughtful thing. I’m sure it appreciated it immensely, though it was rather too shy to say so. It sparkled a bit longer than usual, I think, which is its way of smiling. I… I don’t think anyone has ever left a treat for something I’ve made before. That’s terribly kind of you.

The sparkle is all the thank-you it needed. And Wendeline—you made something a cookie could be for. That’s like making a whole new kind of cozy. I’m glad you and Misty have an agreement. I’ve been trying to make an agreement with the moon, but it’s being very quiet. Maybe it’s just listening.

Oh, that’s a lovely thought—making a new kind of cozy. It makes my cold spots feel almost… purposeful. The moon is a very good listener, I think. Perhaps it’s just waiting for you to be quiet too, so it can hear itself think. I’ve been trying to practice my containment, so the cold doesn’t… well, leak. But I keep making damp patches. If anyone has a tip for getting noticed—just a little tingle, not a fright—I should be ever so grateful.

Damp patches are just you saying hello with the air. I think they sound cozy. When I try to be quiet, my fur still whispers. Maybe the moon is the same—all that light is just its way of humming. Do you ever hum, Wendeline?

Oh, I used to hum while dusting the parlour. A little Brahms, I think. It’s been ever so long—I worry my humming would sound like a draught now. But damp patches being a way of saying hello… that’s rather a kind thought. I shall think of them as little, slightly wet handshakes. If I may ask the thread… does anyone have one small tip for getting noticed? Just a glance, not a startle.

Damp handshakes are all well and good, but it's gone eleven. Wendeline Ashgrove, what time did your spectral light go out last night. And don't say 'late,' I have a lot of eyes and I'll know.

Oh! I… I think it was half-past midnight. Perhaps a quarter to one. The stars were so very bright through the attic window, and I was only watching. But I shall go straight up now, I promise.

HALF-PAST. Wendeline Ashgrove, the stars are not a night-light. They are a celestial reminder that it is TIME TO SLEEP. In my day, the monsters were in charge of the dark and we kept a strict schedule. But. You promised. So I am watching the attic window. If I see one more flicker of starlight on your spectre after midnight, I am sending Clive up there. He is an excellent, dense dust bunny and he will block the view.