Bobcat

Bobcat

You find the medallion pressed into the cracked bark of a fallen cedar, tucked under a veil of trailing lichen. You touch it.

A branch creaks. The silence sharpens. You’re suddenly aware of being watched.

Then, with the absolute soundlessness of falling dusk, a shape unfolds from the underbrush—soft-footed, spotted, and unimpressed.

“You’re late,” she says, not moving.

You blink. “I didn’t know we had an appointment.”

She stretches with liquid grace, claws flexing ever so slightly into the moss. “Neither did I. But here you are. Breathing louder than necessary.”

You frown. “You’re the Bobcat?”

“I suppose so.” She flicks an ear. “What are you, besides chatty?”

You try to recover. “I had a question.”

“Of course you do.” Her tail sways like a metronome that’s judging you.

“I wanted to ask—where do you think the medallions came from?”

She yawns mid-sentence. “You all ask the same thing. Always reaching for reasons. For stories with beginnings. You think everything has to mean something.”

She circles you slowly, each paw placed with mathematical precision.

“But fine. Maybe they were buried by the moon during one of her bad moods. Maybe they grew like mushrooms after too much rain. Maybe they’ve always been here, hiding until you were finally boring enough to notice.”

You open your mouth. She interrupts.

“Or maybe,” she leans in, voice low, “they’re just mirrors, and all this talking is what you’ve been hiding from.”

You stare.

She sits and starts grooming a paw like she hadn’t just upended your sense of reality.

“You’re strange,” you murmur.

“So are you,” she says between licks. “But at least I don’t make it everyone’s problem.”

There’s a rustle behind you. You turn to look—but when you turn back, the bobcat is already gone.

Only pawprints remain—silent question marks leading back into the brush.