I should have known something was off when the real estate agent wouldn't meet me at the building.
Instead, I was told to pick up the keys from a tiny brass mailbox labeled "B. Whiskerstein, Esq." at exactly noon. The envelope was sealed with wax—real wax, mind you—and inside was a single skeleton key, a handwritten lease on parchment, and a note that said simply:
"The walls are listening. Also, no tuna indoors."
My new apartment, 3B, was surprisingly elegant. Crown molding, hardwood floors, and a faint scent of lavender hung in the air. But what really caught my attention was the portrait over the fireplace. A giant oil painting of a cat—regal, silver-tabby, and decked out in a cravat—with piercing green eyes that seemed to follow me around the room.
I was halfway through unpacking when I heard a faint tapping at the door. Expecting a neighbor, I opened it. But no one was there.
Except for a cat. The cat.
He sat with impeccable posture, tail curled neatly around his paws, wearing what looked very much like a velvet bow tie. A leather-bound folder rested at his feet.
Then he stood, gave a slow blink, and—somehow—nudged the folder open with a single elegant paw. Inside was my lease. It now had a note scribbled across it:
"Monthly rent due on the 1st. Do not be late. Scratches may occur."
I stared. He stared back. We had reached an understanding.
And that's how I met Baron Whiskerstein, the feline overlord of 145 Cedar Street. I didn't know it yet, but my life was about to become a whirlwind of milk saucers, meow-based messaging, and the mysterious council of tenant cats.
Welcome to the building.