The next day passed in a haze for Frics. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw a flash of white fur and two piercing sapphire eyes. Every time the factory whistle blew, he half-expected to hear that single, crystalline note superimposed over the shrill sound. He'd tried to convince himself it was a waking dream, a hallucination brought on by hunger and the desolate atmosphere of the factory. But the memory felt too real, too sharp.
He'd spent the morning doing odd jobs for Mr. Gable, the portly grocer whose shop was one of the few that hadn't been boarded up on his street. Frics swept the dusty floors, stacked crates of withered-looking vegetables, and hauled sacks of flour until his back ached and his hands were raw. His payment was two coins and a small carton of milk that was nearing its expiration date. Mr. Gable had called it a bonus. Frics knew it was just something the man couldn't sell.
Normally, the coins would have gone straight into the chipped ceramic jar his mother kept on the kitchen mantelpiece. The milk would have been a rare treat for Elara. But today, Frics clutched them in his hand with a different purpose. The thought of the proud, shivering cat was a persistent itch in his mind. Stale bread was one thing, but maybe... maybe milk was an offering worthy of its consideration. The thought was so absurd he almost smiled. Since when did he care about impressing a stray cat?
As the afternoon sun began its slow descent, painting the smoggy sky in hues of orange and grey, Frics found himself walking the familiar path back to the Zenith factory. He moved with a sense of purpose that felt different from yesterday's aimless wandering. It wasn't just a hunt for scrap metal anymore. He was going to see the ghost.
The factory was just as he had left it: a silent, monolithic tomb of industry. The air was still and heavy. He slipped through a gap in the perimeter fence and navigated the main floor, his boots stirring up little puffs of cement dust. His heart beat a little faster than usual. Would it still be there? Or had it been a one-time apparition, a figment of his lonely imagination?
He rounded a mountain of rusted looms and looked towards the tangle of pipes where he'd first seen it. And there it was.
The cat sat in the exact same spot, a statue of impossible white against the grimy backdrop. It was grooming a paw with meticulous, unhurried concentration, seemingly oblivious to his arrival. But Frics noticed the subtle pause in its movements, the way its ear swiveled minutely in his direction. It knew he was there.
"Hey," he said, his voice softer than he intended.
The cat finished licking its paw, then turned its head to look at him. Those intelligent blue eyes met his, and this time, Frics felt a flicker of something other than annoyance in its gaze. It wasn't warmth, not yet, but perhaps a sliver of recognition. Of expectation.
Frics slowly approached, holding up the small carton of milk like a peace offering. "I, uh, brought you something. Better than yesterday's special."
He knelt a few feet away, careful not to enter its personal space. The cat's eyes flicked to the carton, its nose twitching. He looked around and spotted a discarded hubcap from some long-dead vehicle. It was grimy, but the inside was relatively smooth. He took a rag from his back pocket—a constant companion for wiping grease from his hands—and cleaned the hubcap as best he could. He poured the milk, and the white liquid swirled in the rusted bowl, another stark contrast in this world of decay.
He pushed the hubcap gently across the floor until it was midway between them.
The cat watched the whole process with a critical, unblinking stare. It remained seated for a long moment, as if debating the quality of his service. The pride was still there, an unshakable mantle. But so was the hunger. Finally, with the same fluid grace as the day before, it rose and padded to the hubcap. It lapped at the milk, its small pink tongue moving with a delicate speed.
A real smile touched Frics's lips for the first time that day. He sat back on his heels, content to watch. When the cat was finished, it looked at him, a tiny drop of milk clinging to its white whiskers.
"Good, huh?" Frics murmured. He settled down on the floor, leaning his back against a cold steel support beam. He felt the tension in his shoulders ease. Here, in this forgotten place with this strange creature, the weight of the world seemed a little lighter.
"I think I'll call you Ghost," he said to the silence. "Because you're all white, and you just sort of... appeared. A little ghost in the rust."
The cat had started cleaning its face, but at his words, it froze. Its blue eyes narrowed, fixed on him with a new and startling intensity.
Frics didn't notice. He was lost in his own thoughts, speaking them aloud to the only audience he had. "It's better than being out there, you know? At home, everyone's quiet. Mom worries. Dad coughs. Elara tries to be happy, but she's just a kid. It's... heavy. Here, it's just quiet. A different kind of quiet."
He pulled his knees to his chest, wrapping his arms around them. "Sometimes I think about just leaving. Hopping a freight train and just... going. See what's past the smokestacks. But I can't. Who'd look out for Elara? Who'd help bring in the extra coin for medicine?"
He let out a long, slow breath. He hadn't meant to say all that. The words just came spilling out into the cavernous silence of the factory. He felt a bit foolish, confessing his deepest fears and frustrations to a cat.
He risked a glance at the animal. It was no longer cleaning itself. It was staring at him, its body perfectly still, its gaze piercing. It looked less like an animal and more like a judge, weighing his every word.
"Sorry," Frics mumbled, feeling a blush creep up his neck. "You probably don't care about any of that." He shrugged, trying for a nonchalant air. "Anyway. Ghost. I like it."
He was about to get to his feet, to start his search for scrap, when a sound stopped him dead.
It was a voice.
It was not his own. It was not a distant echo. It was clear, crisp, and came from a point in space directly in front of him.
"That," the voice said, each word laced with an authority that was utterly at odds with its soft, melodic tone, "is not my name."
The voice was female, impossibly refined, and it carried a faint, ethereal resonance, like a chord struck on a harp made of glass.
Frics's entire body went rigid. His blood turned to ice in his veins. He scanned the factory floor wildly, his eyes darting into the deep shadows between the machinery. Was someone there? A squatter? A member of one of the rival scrap crews playing a trick on him?
"Who's there?" he called out, his voice cracking. "Who said that?"
There was no answer. The silence that followed was heavier, more profound than before. His gaze fell back to the cat.
"Ghost?" he whispered, his throat tight.
The white cat had not moved. It simply sat there, watching him with those impossibly blue eyes. It tilted its head, a gesture of regal inquiry.
And then it spoke again. The voice was the same, and this time, he saw its small, pink mouth move.
"I have a name, mortal boy. And it is not 'Ghost'."
Frics scrambled backward, his hands and feet kicking up dust as he crab-walked away. He slammed his back against a rusted metal panel with a loud clang that echoed through the entire factory. He stared, his mind refusing to process what his senses were screaming at him.
Cats did not talk.
Not with perfect, articulate, aristocratic diction. Not in a voice that sounded like forbidden music.
He stared at the small white creature, who now began to groom its chest fur with a placid indifference, as if it had not just shattered his entire understanding of the world. It was real. It was happening.
The white cat, the ghost in the rust, had a voice. And Frics was utterly, completely, terrifyingly alone with it.