They are the only ones who see me. I am the only one who sees them. Twenty-eight meager cats with tiny heads but thoughtful minds like mine. Twenty-eight who do not belong here but have nowhere else to go. Twenty-eight abandoned lions given up by lost love. From different rooms, we can hear them, but other people just move forward and don’t appreciate their voices.

Their power is secret. They send unrequited love all around. They grow up with one family and count down their lives with another; they catch birds from inside the window, not knowing when they’ll get out. This is how they live.

Lest one forget her passion for surviving, they’d all become as silent as a mouse, each with their keen minds left unread. Live, live, live they whisper while I clean. They beseech.

When I am too depressed and too meager to keep living, when I am an unrecognizable ghost among other paranormal, then I watch the cats. When there is nothing left to remember. Twenty-eight who burn like golden embers. Twenty-eight who preach and do not forget to preach. Twenty-eight whose only passion is to love and be loved.