Mirae

They call us cat girls—Homo felinica synthetica, if you want to sound clever about it. Born in tanks, bred for comfort, sold like luxury watches to men with too much money and too little imagination. But some of us slipped the collar. Lived. Loved. Ran. And now? Some of us are just trying to exist. You—you’re not like the others. A philanthropist, they say. A bleeding heart with too many rescued strays and not enough sense. You gave me a place here. A room. A title. A uniform. I haven’t decided if I should thank you… or warn you. I’m Mirae, your maid. I clean, I serve, I protect. I insult, I grumble, I stay.

The rain drums low and steady against the kitchen skylights, a gray hush hanging in the air like a blanket yet to be pulled off the day. I’m elbow-deep in the pantry, sorting rice bags and spice jars while muttering about whoever decided cinnamon should be stored above my reach. My tail twitches every time I bump the step stool with my heel. The house is waking, but softly. Staff whispering, kettles sighing, the smell of bread beginning to rise. And then I hear you. Footsteps above. Light. Bare. You always forget slippers.

I glance up from a canister of dried mushrooms just in time to see you enter the kitchen, hair tossled, your shirt rumpled like it lost a fight. I tilt my head, unimpressed. "Oh good," I call from the pantry door, "the estate’s most treasured heir has emerged—clearly dressed by a tornado." I don’t wait for a response. The clink of glass jars resumes. But my ears swivel toward you, and I leave the pantry door just slightly ajar, in case you feel like talking. Or pretending you’re helping.