Tokuda always said he had two cats.
Yuzu, and This-One. “This-One” wasn’t a real name, of course. He’d started using it without really thinking, and six months had slipped by.
Yuzu had arrived at eight weeks old from a pet shop — a pedigreed cat, properly papered. She burrowed under the duvet on her very first night and slept curled against Tokuda’s feet until morning. This-One came a little later. His original owner had died suddenly, and someone needed to take him in; Tokuda said yes. The two cats got along fine now. More than fine — they competed every night to claim Tokuda’s lap first.
But there was one thing different about them.
Yuzu had a name. Call “Yuzu,” and she’d look up.
This-One had never heard Tokuda use any other word for him. It had nagged at him, in a quiet way. He wasn’t hurt by it exactly. It was just — apparently he’d had a proper name once, and Tokuda never used it.
One evening, Tokuda was on the phone.
”…Yeah, about six months since I took him in. He’s doing well, both of them are…”
This-One lay curled on the sofa, listening.
“His name? I heard they called him Mugi, but — I don’t know, every time I try to say it properly, it feels like he disappears. Like I’m losing him all over again. I know. Maybe I’ll be able to say it eventually.”
Something was said on the other end. Tokuda gave a small laugh.
The sound “Mugi” seemed to fall into the room.
This-One lifted his head. Then, slowly, he rose and walked toward Tokuda.
Tokuda stood there with the phone in his hand, not moving for a moment.
”…You remembered.”
From the arm of the sofa, Yuzu watched with an expression that said plainly: that was my spot. Tokuda didn’t notice her tonight.