The cat has made me into a wizard, at least in the quiet story she tells with her eyes. She believes I can summon food from the hidden places. An empty bowl waits, and with a few simple gestures, it is full again. To her, this is not routine – it is magic.

She approaches with ceremony: weaving circles around my legs, chanting her meows, tail coiling like a ribbon of smoke. Each time she comes, it feels like a chapter retold – the faithful one calling upon the hearth wizard to bring forth plenty. I answer, as good wizards do. The bowl fills, and the covenant holds true.

In her folklore, I suspect she keeps me as the household mage, draped not in robes but in the ordinary, bending the world to keep her safe and fed. She believes in the ritual completely, and there is power in being so believed in.

She eats, and her purr is the hymn that seals the tale – a soft song of trust, love and satisfaction.

And outside, the day lingers. The cicadas chant, the stars scratch their worn runes across the sky… the sun and moon drift above us like gold and silver lanterns.

In moments like these, it feels true enough: the simplest acts are often the deepest spells, and love itself is the oldest magic we know.

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