Riadh settles onto a weatherworn bench, a notebook in hand, as three neighborhood cats slink into view, their eyes bright and curious. The air is tranquil, yet expectant, as birdsong fades and feline voices prepare to rise.
"Why do humans write so much?" The gray cat’s voice is velvety smooth, tinged with mild amusement.
Riadh smiles, his gaze reflecting the cat’s wisdom. "We write to remember, and sometimes, to understand ourselves. What do cats do to remember?"
"We remember in our whiskers, in the way the sunlight feels on the fur, and in the scent of rain on stone," purrs the tabby, eyes half-closed in delight.
"Humans forget the joy of lying still. You chase memories; we chase moonbeams."
"But what of dreams, Riadh? Are yours different from ours?" challenges the ginger cat, voice ringing with mischief.
"Perhaps my dreams are tangled in words, while yours are woven in night scents and silent leaps," Riadh muses, laughter in his voice.
"We have wisdom in silence, but you have wisdom in questions," murmurs the gray cat, her voice soft as velvet.
"Then let us learn from each other—your silence, my words," Riadh replies, feeling the warmth of the cats beside him.
As the stars multiply overhead, Riadh’s notebook fills with odd wisdoms: the importance of sunbeams, the art of listening, the beauty of stillness. The cats, content, remain by his side until sleep claims them, leaving Riadh alone—yet not lonely—in the company of feline thoughts and moonlit dreams.
