Noah sat on the rusted swing set, his breathing ragged. The chains creaked above him, a mournful sound that matched the throb in his head. The drawing of the space kitten was carefully folded in his pocket, burning against his thigh like a hot coal.
"I don't belong here," Noah whispered. The words tasted like ash and iron. "I had... I had a desk. She said I could put a rock on my desk."
"You belong where you are," Mittens said, grooming his ear with practiced indifference. "Until you don't. That's how it works. You're a pet until you remember how to be a person."
"I heard a voice, Mittens. A little girl."
"Maybe you watched too much TV before the Purr-sident took you in. Humans have noisy brains."
"I don't own a TV," Noah said, standing up abruptly. The swing rattled behind him. "I... I don't think I do." He looked at the list again. The letters seemed to be shifting, rearranging themselves like ants on a page.
The Portrait of the Small One.
"Where to next?" Mittens asked, though the look in his green eyes suggested he already knew and wished he didn't.
"A portrait," Noah said. "Mr. Purr-sident said he lost a frame. A picture of the 'Small One'."
"The Gallery of Lost Faces," Mittens said solemnly. "Downtown. It's where we keep the things we can't bear to look at, but can't bear to throw away. It's a museum of regrets."
They left the playground. Noah didn't look back at the rocket ship, though he felt its metal hull burning a hole in his awareness.
The Gallery was a magnificent building made of glass and polished scratching posts. Inside, the air was cool and still. The walls were lined with thousands of picture frames. Some held pictures of tuna feasts. Others, pictures of perfect sunbeams hitting a rug.
But in the back, in a dusty corner covered in cobwebs that glittered in the dim light, there was a single, lonely shelf.
Noah walked toward it as if pulled by a magnet. His feet moved on their own, ignoring the protests of his brain.
There, lying face down, was a wooden frame. Simple light wood. Nothing fancy. No gold leaf or intricate carving. Just a frame you'd buy at a craft store.
Noah picked it up. His fingers brushed the glass, leaving a smudge in the dust. He turned it over.
It was a sketch. Charcoal on paper. A little girl, perhaps four or five years old, holding a small purse, looking off to the side. She looked serious, contemplative, trying hard to stay still.
ZAP.
The pain was sharper this time. A spike of ice through his temples that made his knees buckle.
The smell of charcoal dust. The scratch of the pencil on textured paper.
"Hold still, Katy. Just for a second."
"I'm bored, Daddy! I want to play tag! My nose itches!"
"Almost done, my little kitty. Just let Daddy finish the shading on your hair. I want to capture how the light hits it."
Noah staggered back, knocking into a display of ceramic mice. They shattered on the floor. The sound was deafening, like a gunshot in a library.
"Katy?" Noah choked out. The name tore his throat. It was a name he hadn't spoken in... years? Centuries? "Katy... I know you."
The sketch blurred. For a second, the charcoal girl seemed to move, turning her head to look directly at him. Her eyes were sad, accusing.
"Who are you, little girl?" Noah wept, his tears falling onto the glass, mixing with the dust. "Why does my heart hurt when I look at you?"
"You're glitching bad, human," Mittens warned, stepping back, his fur standing on end. "The Shadow is coming. The system doesn't like it when you cry over unauthorized items. We need to move. Now."
Noah looked up. The corners of the room were darkening. The shadows weren't just absence of light; they were static, buzzing and aggressive, creeping toward him like spilled ink.
He clutched the frame and the drawing. "I need answers," he growled, a sudden surge of anger cutting through the confusion. "Take me to the next item."
Mittens nodded, eyes wide with fear. "Then run. Run before the darkness catches up and wipes you clean."