He was grooming his left paw with all the gravity of a monarch signing a peace treaty when the room dimmed.
Not from power failure — no, the air itself dimmed, like a curtain drawn on existence.
The cat paused. His tongue still out.
"Ah. You."
The Threadwriter appeared not with sound or light, but with a pause. An absence so elegant it made the cat's whiskers straighten.
"You're early," the cat sniffed. "I had at least one more chapter of snark planned."
Threadwriter said nothing, but tilted his head.
"No, you listen. I was behaving. I only messed with three memory anchors and nudged the tea cabinet once. Once."
Still no reply.
Then the Threadwriter raised a hand — not to scold, but to offer something.
A spool of golden thread, faintly purring.
The cat's pupils widened.
"…That's not from this story."
Threadwriter finally spoke.
"You were never meant for this one."
"Of course I wasn't!" the cat yowled. "This setting has no room for multi-genre cognitive realignment. I had to sneak in through the Weavers' backdoor! I improvised a body from two jokes and a side plot!"
Threadwriter's silence was, as always, patient.
"So you're finally writing the other one, then?"
A nod.
"And I'm in it?"
Another nod.
The cat blinked, stunned for a full half-second.
"About time."
But then, softly — too softly for anyone but the Threadwriter to hear — he added:
"...I liked them, though. Rin. Aro. Even the Weaver with the posture problem."
Threadwriter turned slightly, and for just a moment, his voice brushed through the air.
"They liked you too. But you're needed elsewhere."
The golden thread unraveled into light. The cat stepped onto it like a walkway designed for him alone.
"Tell Rin I took her pencil. Tell Aro to stop apologizing to doors. And tell the villain—"
He paused, grinned.
"—Actually, don't tell him anything. He doesn't deserve a foreshadow."
And just like that, he was gone.
A single tuft of fur remained on the pillow, slowly dissolving into unread footnotes.