Wick would stretch out across the edge of the couch like he owned the place—which, in his mind, he did—and wait. Patient in the way only a cat plotting nonsense can be. The moment Shyla passed by, slow and careful, counting steps instead of seeing them, his paw would flick out. 

A quick swat to her tail. Not claws. Never claws. Just enough to startle. Just enough to say I’m here. 

Every time, her body would pause. A small hitch in her movement, like the world had shifted half an inch to the left. She’d stand there for a second, still as stone, recalibrating—listening, feeling, adjusting to something she couldn’t quite place. 

And Wick? He’d settle right back down like nothing had happened. Innocent. Untouchable. Watching. 

It should have been annoying. Maybe even cruel, on the surface. 

But it wasn’t. Because Shyla never panicked. Not once. 

She’d find herself again—re-center, steady, and keep going. Slow steps. Quiet confidence. Moving through a world that offered her no visuals, only signals and memory and instinct. 

And over time, something shifted. Wick didn’t stop being Wick. He still had that spark, that need to test boundaries, to interact in the only language he knew. But his timing changed. His swats became softer. Less about surprise, more… intentional. 

Like he understood. Like, in his own strange way, he was learning her world instead of forcing her into his. 

And Shyla? She let him. No fear. No correction. Just quiet acceptance, as if she’d already decided that whatever this small, chaotic creature was… it belonged. 

Looking back now, I don’t think Wick was just playing pranks. I think he was trying to figure her out. And Shyla, old and blind and impossibly steady, gave him the space to do it.