This is Stefon Mears’s second story in these pages and he has more coming soon, I can promise you. If you are a cat person, this story will take you and make you smile and maybe even bring a tear to your eye. Midnight the cat is so, so special.

You can find so much more of Stefon’s fantastic work on his website at www.stefonmears.com.

The day Midnight died, he almost didn’t notice.

The sunbeam had been just that good.

Sunbeams were the perfect way to end a catnip jaunt through the room with the big white high-backed beds, the ones the two-legs sat on when they stared at their big flat box of colors and noise.

Catnip was fun. Made him feel like a kitten again, instead of the fifteen-year-old behemoth he’d become, with his short black fur stretched across his gloriously massive belly. Right ear permanently shortened by that scrap with a raccoon…oh, sometime back.

Midnight was never a cat to waste time on reminiscence. The present, that was what mattered. And if he was no longer so swift and bouncy as the kitten he’d been, well, catnip helped bring back some of his lost youth.

The catnip had buzzed through him. Made him bounce and roll and pounce pounce pounce on the dangly thing at the end of Little Warmth’s stick. Of the three two-legs Midnight lived with, Little Warmth was his favorite. She still giggled when they played, as she had when she was small and Midnight was a kitten. She had big blue eyes full of love, and long yellow hair Midnight got to bat at sometimes. And she still held him and sang to him and scritched all his favorite spots, just as she always had.

And after Midnight got to play catnip games with his favorite two-legs, that sunbeam under the giant rectangle window had been just perfect. The kind that made his fur ripple with pleasure as he settled down. Heat easing relaxation into his old bones as he rode out the tail end of his catnip buzz, purring himself to sleep.

So when Midnight rose from his nap in the lazy pre-dinner sun, he contemplated a snack and stretched the way he always did—forepaws sliding forward across the rough blue carpet until his shoulders pressed down that way that felt delightful. Then farther still until he pushed his chest down past his belly and arched his hips just as high as they could go. Sleek tail high and proud. Then he dug his claws into the carpet to knead and stretch every tendon just so.

That was when Midnight began to notice that something wasn’t right.

First, something was wrong with the carpet. It wasn’t pulling against his claws the way it was supposed to. Why, he wasn’t getting any of that good tendon stretch at all.

Second, he felt lighter. Lighter than he’d felt in years, even though he still had the expansive belly he was so proud of. So light he couldn’t even feel that ache in his hips and knees that had been growing steadily for…oh, for some time now.

Third, he could still feel the catnip buzz. That was even odder than the lightness, because catnip was an established part of Midnight’s routine, and Midnight knew his routines well.

Once every seven days, Little Warmth would scatter some catnip on the carpet in the room with the big box of colors and noise. Wherever Midnight was in the house, he would smell it. Spicy and enticing as a whiff of mouse, enthralling as a treat in the hands of a two-legs. So good to roll around in. Even better to taste, it danced on his tongue when he licked it. Like the taste of wild grass and power. Something primal, as though the catnip spoke to some ancient version of Midnight, awakening it in the modern cat.

Little Warmth would watch and giggle while Midnight rolled and bounced, then she would stroke his fur and speak in the sweet voice she used only for him. Finally, she would take out the stick with the dangly thing and they would play until Midnight could play no more.

Then he would sleep in a sunbeam, and awaken sober and hungry.

But Midnight wasn’t sober. He could still feel the buzz of the catnip making him bouncy. And he wasn’t particularly hungry either.

Midnight looked around. The big, high-backed white beds that the two-legs sat on had some kind of white haze around them. Not like morning mist Midnight remembered from the days that the two-legs still let him romp around outside. Back before the raccoon. No, this mist had a slight glow to it. And it covered the pale walls too, and even the carpet. Everything had that haze.

And something was wrong with Midnight’s nose. He should have been able to smell Little Warmth, and his food bowl, and that fake flowery smell that filled the house, especially around his sandbox.

But those smells were barely there.

Midnight needed help to figure this one out. He needed Little Warmth. He should have been able to hear her moving about, maybe in the room she slept in. She stared at other boxes in there. But the sounds, they were odd too. They echoed in a way he didn’t like. As though he were in the tiny rain room where the two-legs tried to scrub away their smells.

Midnight didn’t like any of this.

Except maybe the little buzz of catnip. That gave him some comfort. But still, he cried out long and loud for Little Warmth.

She didn’t answer his first call, but that was not so odd. The two-legs, their ears weren’t very good. So he called again. And again.

Finally Little Warmth came strolling into the room, carrying a tall, skinny, glass water bowl. That haze surrounded her too, thicker even than around the high-backed beds, but it didn’t obscure her. As she entered, she was singing some little song that wasn’t his so it didn’t matter.

But she didn’t come pick up Midnight or comfort him.

In fact, she walked straight past him to the sunbeam.

That was when Midnight saw his body for the first time. When Little Warmth crouched and reached to rub his body’s belly, saying little nonsense things as she rubbed.

She figured out the truth at almost the same moment Midnight did.

And they both began to cry.

Midnight recovered himself quickly. Death was death, and nothing to be feared. He had brought it to his share of birds and field mice and tasty voles, back when the two-legs let him roam and hunt.

He had lived a full life, and he had always known death would come for him one day.

Truth was, Midnight had not been crying for himself.

He had been crying to feel such deep waves of sadness coming from his beloved Little Warmth.

Tears flowed down her unfortunately furless cheeks. Her nose sniffled and snuffled. Her voice broke as she held his body and tried to sing Midnight’s songs.

Midnight went to her. Tried to put a paw on her leg to get her attention. That was his pick-me-up signal, but in the moment it only needed to say “Here I am. My body is not me. Here is your little Midnight.”

But his paw passed through her leg with barely a pause. And Little Warmth didn’t feel him. She didn’t look up from the body of Midnight Past to the…whatever Midnight Present was.

He needed to try harder. He lifted both forepaws to her leg and bellowed his where-are-you meow.

Nothing.

And Little Warmth was crying even louder, uttering small broken words, her sweet face turning red.

She plopped down on her butt on the blue carpet and fell backward, weeping as she cradled Midnight’s body against her bosom as she had so many times. So much sadness flowed from her now that it almost overwhelmed Midnight. He wanted to cry for her too. To cry for the sadness he could not abate.

But the first moment of shock had passed, and now the catnip would not let him weep. It buzzed through him. Forming a layer of bounciness between Midnight and the sadness. But it gave no comfort now. The buzz was wrong. Vile. Catnip was a thing of joy, a little gift from Bast to the cats of the world, to remind them that deep down every cat is wild. That, unlike dogs, cats had never been tamed into obedience. That cats lived with the two-legs because they chose to.

Catnip was bliss. And this was a time of sadness.

So Midnight tried to shake off the buzz as Little Warmth lay there, crying over his body.

He jumped over and over his favorite two-legs, trying to work off the buzz as she wept. But he was so light now that the leaping took no more effort than the landing, and that scarcely required him to bend his now pain-free joints.

He ran around her, and leaped, and pounced, and called out, but nothing seemed to break through those waves of sadness.

Finally, Little Warmth sat up, still holding Midnight’s body as though he were still in it. She drew a few deep, shuddering breaths. Said a few things that sounded sweet but made her sob and squeeze her eyes tight.

That was too much.

Buzz or no buzz, Midnight put everything he had into one more meow. He reached deep within himself and let out a cry louder than the one that had chased off the Interloping Tabby some years back.

And for a moment—just a moment—Little Warmth stopped crying.

Her head came up, and she looked around the way the two-legs do when their weak ears can’t tell where a sound came from. And then she said the one word he recognized.

“Midnight?”

But then she looked down at his body in her arms and shook her head, tears flowing down her face anew. She closed her eyes and shook her head harder. She said something else. Something dismissive sounding.

Little Warmth got awkwardly to her feet, and carried Midnight’s body out of the room. He trotted along after her into the kitchen, where he could hardly hear her bare feet pad on the smooth floor that tasted fake and slick and lemon-but-not-lemon from the residue of the smell-ridder than the two-legs wiped across it.

Little Warmth picked up her tiny box from the cool stone counter, the one Midnight wasn’t supposed to walk on, but did all the time anyway.

Midnight recognized the small, thin box she picked up. It was the one she played with and stared at more than any other box.

She held it to her ear and started speaking. But that was a two-legs thing. Whatever she was saying, it didn’t matter. Not really.

Because Midnight realized three things.

First, Little Warmth had heard him call out, no matter how she now pretended she didn’t.

Second, Midnight could no longer feel the catnip.

Those two facts had to be related. Running and jumping and pouncing had done nothing to work the catnip through Midnight, but that one call had used it up.

Midnight said a little word of thanks to Bast for giving cats catnip. And for the little bonus it seemed that herb brought over and above its bliss.

Catnip gave Midnight a way to reach across death to Little Warmth. And that was good, because of the third thing he realized.

Without the buzz of the catnip flowing through his system, Midnight could feel a tug inside his glorious belly. A tug that made him want to find a tree and climb, climb, climb. Instinct told him he felt the pull of the next world. That his time in this place was limited now.

Soon Midnight would have to pass beyond this world to the next, where he would wait for Little Warmth and guide her to what would follow.

But if catnip could keep that feeling at bay, then maybe it could help keep him here with Little Warmth….

But then Midnight remembered the way his paws passed through her leg, even with the catnip buzzing through him. He could not nuzzle her, or bathe her arms and chin properly. She could not stroke his fur, or scritch the places he liked, or cuddle him close.

He would be nothing more than…whatever he was. Between. And that would be wrong. The time had come for him to move on, and that tug was his reminder that what came next was waiting.

But Midnight had to say goodbye first. He could not leave his beloved Little Warmth so full of sadness. Had to see one more smile on her face before the pull of the next world grew too strong to resist.

He needed more catnip.

The problem was that Midnight didn’t know where Little Warmth kept his supply of catnip. Yes, there were little bits in some of his toy mice, but that catnip was all old and used up. He needed the fresh catnip. He needed the catnip that Little Warmth would scatter for him every seven days, before they played their favorite game.

But Little Warmth hid that supply.

That was Midnight’s own fault, and he knew it. He had seen only a few years of this world when he found his first supply. A little crinkly transparent thing full of catnip. He had smelled it on the cool stone counter not more than a few steps from where Little Warmth now held his body.

Young Midnight had smelled the catnip through the crinkly barrier. That was the first time he leapt onto the cool stone counter in the kitchen. He’d needed only moments to chew through the crinkles to the catnip inside.

He’d found that supply in the morning, and still been bouncy when Little Warmth came home hours later. Big Warmth and Deep Voice were with her, and they were angry at the artistic way Midnight had scattered the catnip across the counter as he rolled in it.

But then, the two-legs had no appreciation for art.

Ever since, Little Warmth had hidden away the catnip, and stored it in something stronger than the crinkly clear stuff. Midnight had tried a few times to smell it, but his nose could not pick it up, even when he was alive and all the scents were right.

They were all wrong now. He could barely tell the signature musk of Little Warmth from the lemon-not-lemon of the kitchen floor or the fake flower smell of the air.

But the tug in his belly was growing stronger, and he needed to act fast.

Midnight ran back into the room with the big flat box of noise and colors. Today’s catnip was still there. Good. He was afraid he’d slept—or died—through the screaming sucker, the one Little Warmth used to catch up all the catnip after their games.

Midnight sprawled his massive body across the floor and started rolling.

Nothing happened.

The catnip wasn’t sticking to his fur. He wasn’t getting the smell the way he should have. A ripple of irritation flattened his ears and worked its way down until his tail twitched back and forth harshly.

He tried licking the catnip.

Something.

It wasn’t quite the same, and it wasn’t as strong as he would have liked. He couldn’t quite taste it. But when his tongue passed through the catnip—and it did, just the way his paws had passed through Little Warmth’s leg—he felt an echo of the proper buzz and a diminishment of the tug in his belly.

Midnight licked it all up. Every bit of catnip he could find. The buzz wasn’t all it should have been, but it was something.

But what could he do with it?

And then he had an idea. Just a little puff of an idea. Hardly a dust mote worth chasing, but he had to try something.

Midnight sat in the middle of the scattered catnip and reach deep down into himself. He thought of his love for Little Warmth. He thought of his love of catnip. He thought of everything that was good in this world and he put every bit of it into the loudest, longest meow he’d ever given voice to.

He held that sound just as long as he could, and as he did he felt the buzz of the catnip leaking away and the tug in his belly starting again.

And it was stronger now. Urging him to run, to jump, to climb to what came next.

Little Warmth came running into the room, astonishment in her sweet blue eyes. Her face still red and puffy from all her crying.

Midnight’s heart went out to her. He hated seeing the glimmer of hope underneath her confusion. Hated the wave of sadness that he knew would follow. Hated most of all that growing tug in his belly.

“Midnight?” she said again. And she looked around for him, saying little words he didn’t understand, though he felt their hope. Perhaps she felt his presence. Knew that some part of him sat nearby, had called out to her.

Midnight’s claws were working now, even though he could no longer knead the carpet. He needed to grip this world. To hold on to it just a little longer. To fight that need to move on.

Her shoulders slumped when she could not find him. Nor feel him. And she retrieved the screaming sucker and caught up all the catnip. Midnight followed her, fighting for every step as she put the screaming sucker away, and his hopes rose as she stopped and blinked for a moment.

Then she started up the stairs with a purpose. Midnight followed hot on her heels, prancing and high-stepping the way he had so very many times before. The tug seemed pleased that he was climbing something, but still it pulled him to move on.

When she got to the room she slept in, she went to the tall chest where she stored her fur substitutes. She pulled open the top drawer. Midnight knew that drawer. He’d gotten in there once when she’d left it open…oh, some years past. He knew it held soft things that carried more of her smell than any of the other fur substitutes she used to cover her unfortunately furless body.

She pulled out a small glass jar, and inside it Midnight could see the answer to all his hopes.

His stash of catnip! More than he’d ever seen before. Nearly enough to halfway fill one of his cans of food.

Little Warmth turned, but before she could take a step Midnight pounced. He pounced like the catnip was a bird and this was his last chance to catch one before being confined for life to the indoor world.

He passed straight through the catnip, mouth open wide. Trying to consume it all at once.

And in this between state he could do just that.

Midnight was vibrating now. The catnip jolted through his system like the joy of a hunt and the pleasure of a scritch and the warmth of a sunbeam and a full belly all at once, and then some.

The tug went away. As though it were gone completely, but Midnight knew better.

Midnight ran in front of Little Warmth, who was now walking back toward the stairs.

He reached down into his depths as he had before, and poured all of his love for Little Warmth into two things: one last purring meow (and the purr came easily through all that catnip), and one last attempt to leap into her arms.

“Midnight?” said Little Warmth, dropping the jar of catnip…

…and trying to catch him.

And for that one moment. She could.

For that one moment, that one final moment, Midnight was once more purring in the arms of his beloved Little Warmth. She was laughing and crying all at once and trying to say his name.

But before she could finish his name, the moment was past and her arms moved through him.

The tug came back with a vengeance. Too strong for Midnight to resist now. He had no choice but to follow it through the wall to a great oak tree that had never been in his backyard territory during life. The Tree Between Worlds.

And with one last laughing crying smile from Little Warmth to bolster him, Midnight began to climb.