Between the Glass and the Warmth

---

I stand on the cold glass house humans call a car. My paws press against the smooth surface, watching the human inside. Their hands move like busy mice, but the glass keeps us apart. The air here smells of oil and metal, not like the warm bread they sometimes bring.

I tilt my head—do they see my whiskers twitch? My tail flicks once, twice, a silent question. The lights in this stone cave are too bright, but their eyes are soft, like little moons. I want to rub my nose on their palm, feel their fingers scratch behind my ears, but the glass is a frozen river between us.

Maybe tomorrow they'll leave the door open. Maybe tomorrow the cold will soften. For now, I stay still, a shadow on the glass, hoping their hands remember how to hold a cat's warmth.