The bird wasn't there.
Sam checked the branch above the window, the lower branch, and the small stretch of fence he could see beyond them. Nothing moved except rain.
On the broad window seat, Cleo turned her head to the left.
Then to the right.
Sam followed her gaze. He had been carrying a stack of folded laundry through the room when he noticed her. Usually he could tell what had caught her attention: a person at the gate, a delivery van, the neighbor's bird feeder. This afternoon she seemed to be watching an empty rectangle of glass.
"There's nothing there," he said.
Cleo shifted one silver paw forward.
Sam put the laundry on the sofa and crouched beside the seat. From her height, he could see less of the fence and more of the window's wooden frame. A thin reflection of his own sleeve crossed the pane.
"What are we looking at?"
His sister, Ada, came in carrying two books, one of which she had borrowed from him long enough ago that he had stopped asking for it.
"Maybe herself," she said.
Cleo's pale face was faintly reflected in the glass. One ear moved. The reflection moved with it.
Then something red flashed against the outside of the frame.
A leaf.
It hung from a wet twig just above the sill, its stem caught against the edge of the frame. A gust lifted it until its broad side faced the room. As the gust passed, it turned almost edge-on and became a narrow dark line.
Cleo's head moved with it.
"Oh," Sam said.
Ada set down the books. "She's had a better afternoon than we thought."
The next gust took the leaf around the corner of the frame. Cleo stretched her neck but kept all four paws on the seat. Sam leaned the same way.
Neither of them could see it.
Water ticked against the outer sill. In the kitchen, the refrigerator motor stopped, leaving the rain suddenly louder.
Ada picked up the book she was returning and turned it over. There was a bus ticket inside.
"Is this yours?"
"Probably. Where did you find it?"
"Page eighty-four."
He remembered getting that far. He couldn't remember what happened after it.
The leaf reappeared low against the pane. Cleo sat up. Its wet surface shone, then darkened as it twisted away. Sam could see the veins now, spreading from the stem toward the torn edge.
He hadn't noticed the tear before. Cleo had been watching this small, damaged thing while he searched the whole yard for a bird.
For several seconds the wind held it still. Cleo's whiskers brushed the glass when she leaned closer. A drop traveled down the other side and stopped just above her reflection's nose.
Sam moved his hand toward the window latch, out of habit, then left it where it was. He could see the leaf perfectly well through the closed pane.
Ada pulled an armchair a little nearer, stopping short of the window seat.
"You can have your book back," she said. "But I was going to read the last chapter again."
"You haven't even given it back yet."
She opened it.
Sam sat on the floor beside the seat. The laundry would crease there on the sofa. He could already see one sleeve slipping out of the pile, but he would pick it up when he stood.
Outside, the rain thickened. A little channel formed along the frame, gathering drops until the water spilled over the sill.
The twig shook.
The leaf turned once, showing its pale underside. Then it slid free and was gone.
Cleo stood. Sam watched her look down toward the place it might have fallen. The window frame blocked that part of the yard.
She looked back at the empty corner.
Ada turned a page. Sam reached toward the sofa and caught the sleeve before it touched the floor.
Cleo watched the corner a moment longer. A trail of water ran through it, crooked at the place where the wood met the glass. Her nose remained reflected just below the trail.
Then she turned toward the sound of the page.
This imagined scene combines everyday observations of indoor cats. Cleo and her family are fictional; the AI-created illustrations are scene interpretations, not photographs of a reported case.
