The baker stacks loaves. Face flat. The mailman stamps. Face flat. Momo's small ears swivel forward on her windowsill.
Momo pads off the windowsill. One paw, two paws, cold stone under each. The street is quiet. Too quiet.
Momo tucks a sun-warm pebble into the baker's apron pocket. She whispers, 'For you.' He looks down. Picks it up. A small smile cracks his face.
Momo's tail gives one tiny wag. She trots on, paws soft on the warm stone. The cobblestones glow gold in the afternoon sun.
Momo licks a dusty smudge clear off the mailman's window. She tucks a pressed daisy onto his letter pile. He turns. Frowns. Stamps three more letters.
Momo mews, 'Smile, please.' His stamp hovers mid-air. The daisy leans on three stamped letters. Then he grins.
At the town's edge, the old woman sits tangled in thorns. Her face is flat as stone. Thorns scratch. The air smells like green and rust.
Momo wades in. A thorn scrapes her whisker. She pops out holding a bright red strawberry. It lands in the old woman's lap.
'Meeooow?' the old woman says. Half-laugh. The wooden bench creaks as she stands, grinning wide. Thorns fall from her shoulders.
Evening pours over the street. Momo pads home, paws soft on warm cobblestones. Two cups curl steam at the baker's window. Her tail tips back. And forth. And back. She purrs.
