Venus was asleep beside the window, her fluffy tail wrapped snugly around her paws. Golden afternoon light pooled across the floorboards. Something small and yellow fluttered past her nose — a butterfly, landing gently on her whiskers. Venus's eyes snapped open.
One paw batted at the butterfly. It danced away, wings catching sunlight like stained glass. Venus chased it over cushions and under the coffee table, her tail puffing up with each near miss. She could not catch it.
Venus hid behind the potted fern, one ear twitching, waiting. The butterfly returned, settling on a green leaf not far away. She held her breath — and lunged! Her claws scrabbled on the polished floorboard, and she tumbled sideways.
She landed with a soft thump in a pile of blankets. Venus kicked and wriggled, tangled in soft fabric. She mewled in annoyance, but the butterfly had vanished. Where could it have gone?
The butterfly appeared again. It drifted closer, slower, until it settled right on the tip of Venus's twitching tail. She froze. Her eyes widened — then slowly, slowly, they closed.
Venus lay perfectly still. The butterfly fluttered once, twice, and drifted away toward the window. She curled into a tight ball, her breathing slowing to a gentle rhythm.
The sun warmed her fur. The room was quiet — just the soft hum of afternoon. Venus's ears gave one last little twitch, then went still. She slept, this time without chasing anything at all.
The butterfly's wing caught one last ray of sun — a tiny flash of gold — then disappeared beyond the curtain. Venus purred, deep and slow, in her blanket nest. The afternoon stretched on, gentle and endless.