She even placed her old hoodie beside the bowl, hoping the familiar scent might guide Nina home. All night she woke in hour-long bursts to check. Each time, the food sat untouched. By morning, she was out stapling posters to telephone poles: Missing Kitten – Nina – Small, White, No Collar – Very Friendly. She printed them on pale blue paper so they’d stand out.
She pinned one to the grocery store’s community board, handed a few to dog walkers, even slipped one under the windshield wiper of a delivery van. People were sympathetic. They promised to keep watch. One woman swore she’d seen a flash of white dart across her backyard two streets over. Lisa hurried there, calling Nina’s name until her voice felt raw. Nothing.
The days blurred. Rain bled the ink from her posters; one ended up lodged in a gutter. She made more. She didn’t care how messy they looked—she needed her kitten back. Neighbours noticed. Across the street, Mr. Dawes paused while trimming his hedges. “Still no luck?” he asked. Lisa shook her head. He frowned. “Shame. My dog went missing once. Turned out he was under the deck the whole time, hiding from fireworks. Maybe your Nina’s just laying low somewhere.”
“Maybe,” Lisa said, though she didn’t believe it.
The next afternoon, a teenage girl from three houses down showed up at her door, holding a damp, crumpled poster. “Found this by the basketball court. Thought you’d want it back.”
“Thanks,” Lisa replied, surprised by how rough her own voice sounded. The girl lingered a moment. “I hope you find her. She looked sweet.”
“She was,” Lisa said before she could stop herself. The past tense felt wrong in her mouth. By the fifth day, when she’d started to quietly brace for the possibility that Nina might never return, the doorbell rang.
It was Kevin, a man from the next block—cargo shorts, a limp, the sort you recognised in passing but didn’t really know. He looked uneasy. “You still looking for your cat?”
Lisa’s heart skipped. “Yes.”
He scratched his chin. “My daughter’s kitten vanished last night. Same thing—one second she’s playing on the patio, next second… gone.”
Lisa’s stomach tightened. “Exactly like Nina.”
He nodded slowly. “And this morning, I found something odd in the yard. Tracks. Not a dog. Big. Quiet.”
He handed her his phone. On the screen was a photo of a muddy patch of grass, marked by a single, wide, deep print—larger than a man’s hand. Lisa stared at it. “That’s not a dog,” she murmured.