They came without warning, these guests with silent steps discreet, conquering the peace of my Breton retreat. Not mere passersby, but true tenants of silence, come to fill my days with a tender kind of stir. And with a gentle intrusion, like the wind sneaking into a house long closed, these unexpected lodgers decided without contract or condition to take up residence in my daily life.

The first to cross the threshold, I nicknamed her Mini Bimbo. A frail silhouette, bold and delicate, like a lost muse. She has that sharp gaze the kind you see in those who’ve witnessed the old man with a remarkable abundance of food. A look that disarmed me, to the point that I offered her, without a hint of hesitation, the salmon I’d set aside for myself the night before. She accepted it with the grace of a starving queen, then let me stroke her hindquarters, as if giving her tithe, and in a blink, she vanished again for a nap elsewhere with a young cat, hence the name: a true bimbo.

Then came Garage, all black except for a small white patch on his neck, like a bow tie carelessly tied. A distracted adventurer who had gotten himself locked inside the garage. It took me two full days of clearing out the space, moving mountains of wood, before I finally saw him curled up between two beams. A silent prisoner, he looked at me with neither fear nor reproach, and I understood then that a quiet trust had just been born.

Another, whom I named Booba, haunts the place his twin made of shadow and fear. Timid, elusive, he watches from afar as his brothers and sisters feast. But sometimes, braving his fear as one crosses an inner Rubicon, he timidly approaches, yearning too for a touch of warmth.

Lastly, the most recent arrival: little Smoking, dainty and graceful. She appeared later, like a quiet sigh, a delicate note forgotten in a musical score. And yet, here she is now, faithfully present, chasing after the pack as if she had always been part of it a kitten left behind from a miraculous litter.

Every morning, they greet me like a king, like a savior no, better: like a Messiah. And I, in their gaze, in their high-pitched songs, feel them dance around my legs, and I realize that love doesn’t always meow where you expect it. These are my tenants of the week, and I fully intend to tell you their story in the coming weeks.

FM: King