stretchy
Rosy never thought the sound of keys turning in a door could mean so much.
She never thought silence could hurt.
The house was once her palace. warm, alive, and filled with the laughter of her Twolegs. The scent of breakfast in the morning, sunlight spilling across the tiles, Patches' soft snores echoing through the afternoon naps. Everything felt safe. Eternal.
But safety is fragile.
Now the rooms are still. The bowls sit empty. And behind the walls of the quiet house, two cats wait for footsteps that don't seem to appear.
Days blur into silence. Hunger whispers in the corners, soft at first, then sharper, louder, harder to ignore. Rosy feels it gnawing at her mind, twisting her love, turning warmth into need.
Her world was built on affection and routine, but survival is not gentle.
And the things we love most can turn feral when left alone too long.