Unfound

There are doors, many open but most closed. It is right that they remain closed. We don’t need to see what lies behind their sturdy barricades.

As days crawl by, each shorter and darker than the last, the thing I cling to most is this: most of the doors are still closed.

But I keep thinking of Quill and how the door was closed, the basement door was closed and locked, and how she was out when we came back.

Is a closed door really so much security, even one that is as locked and barred as these are supposed to be? Graviora manent; Nemo ante mortem beatu.

A cat’s collarbone is not connected to other bones in its body, instead buried in the muscle of the cat’s shoulder. This allows a cat to slip through any opening the size of its head — Quill was locked in the basement when we left the house, and through strength and acrobatic flexibility, she managed to squeeze between the door and the wall, straining the door against it’s chain lock.

Most doors are kept closed, but it is really so hard to imagine that something on the other side could, like a cat, squeeze itself through the cracks? Something thin and flexible and hungry which, sniffing long enough around the edges of its door, has smelled good prey and comes now to hunt.

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