Record 21 – Eyes Above Us

We stepped out of Times Square, leaving the flashing screens behind. The parrot flew above us in a low arc, circling once like he wanted to count our shadows. Then he settled on a streetlamp, claws tight around the metal.

He jerked his wing upward. A sharp, fast gesture. A warning or a signal – I couldn’t tell.

I lifted my gaze.

They were there.
On the rooftops.

Cats.

Dozens of them. Sitting in perfect lines along the edges of buildings. Motionless. Ears forward. Tails still. Their shapes were cut out of the night like dark statues, but their eyes caught the neon glow and threw it back in tiny sparks of green, gold, and blue. Like mirrors. Like signals.

None meowed.
None padded forward.
None made a sound.

They just watched.
As if I had stepped into a ritual I did not understand.
As if they had been waiting hours for this moment, breathless and quiet.

Repsik leaned closer to me, voice thin. “They’ve been following us.”

The parrot clicked his beak, almost amused. “They follow anything new.” He tilted his head, eyes shining. “And you two… are new.”

The air changed. He didn’t mean new to the street. He meant new to the world. New in the way we thought. New in the way we understood words that were never meant for us.

A soft scrape sounded above. One silhouette moved. Slowly. Calmly. It rose to its paws and walked along the roof’s edge with steps too smooth for a normal cat. Then it leaped – silent, long, precise – to a lower ledge.

It didn’t break eye contact with me.
Not for a second.