Chapter 2 - Carolina

The blinking cursor on my laptop might as well have been laughing at me. Every time I tried to put words on the page, it just sat there, smug and relentless. I leaned back in my chair, pressing the heels of my hands into my eyes, and groaned.

“Porra…” I muttered, dragging the word out like it could take my frustration with it. I typed a line, read it, and immediately deleted it. Typed again, deleted again. Nothing sounded right. My brooding cat shifter hero was about as sexy as an old shoe. My heroine felt like cardboard. And the whole plot? Flat.

This wasn’t supposed to happen. I’d come to America to write love stories, to become C.A. Noite, the name that sounded mysterious and romantic, the one I thought would one day be printed on book covers in bold, swoony fonts. But right now, C.A. Noite felt like a fraud.

I closed the laptop with a snap and let my head fall forward onto the desk. “Ai, meu Deus,” I mumbled into the wood. The cheap apartment smelled faintly of yesterday’s coffee and the lavender candle I’d been burning down to nothing in hopes of summoning inspiration. It wasn’t working.

Sitting up, I stared around the little place I called home. The walls were bare except for the corkboard I’d hung over my desk, covered in half-finished outlines, sticky notes scribbled with character names, and doodles I made when I was stuck. My notebook, with frayed edges and ink stains, sat open beside me. Even it looked bored.

I flipped through the pages, seeing the lines I’d written weeks ago. My cat shifter, João, was supposed to be dangerous, magnetic, impossible to resist. Instead, he read like a grumpy landlord who hated everyone. And my heroine? She was supposed to be fierce and full of life. But I couldn’t even get her to walk across the page without sounding like she was trudging through mud.

“Carolina, você está perdida,” I muttered to myself. Carolina, you’re lost.

The worst part was that my imagination used to run wild. Back in Brazil, I’d fill notebooks with stories, staying up late scribbling by flashlight. Moving here was supposed to take me to the next level. Instead, I felt stuck in quicksand.

I pushed away from the desk and flopped onto the couch, curling under the thin throw blanket. My fingers itched to write, but the spark was gone. I wanted the rush again, the kind that made me type until my wrists ached, the kind that left me laughing or crying with my characters. Instead, all I had was silence.

Grabbing my phone, I scrolled aimlessly through social media, flicking past posts of other writers celebrating their new releases, glowing with success. Each one hit like a jab. I wanted to be happy for them, I really did. But instead I whispered, “Merda,” and tossed the phone onto the cushions.

For a long minute, I just lay there, listening to the hum of the fridge and the faint street noise outside. Newark in December wasn’t exactly the romance setting of my dreams, but it was what I had. And somewhere out there, maybe, my story was waiting.

I didn’t know yet that it had four paws, orange fur, and a bell around its neck.

I didn’t know what else to do, so I decided to walk. Sometimes moving my body tricked my brain into unclogging itself. Besides, if I stayed cooped up in that apartment any longer, I was going to start yelling at my furniture.

I tugged on my coat, wrapped my scarf twice around my neck, and shoved my notebook into my bag. The air outside was sharp, the kind that bit my cheeks and made my breath fog in front of me. Newark in December wasn’t pretty, but it was alive, buses hissing, horns blaring, people wrapped in coats rushing past like everyone had somewhere important to be.

I tucked my hands into my pockets and told myself I wasn’t looking for inspiration. I was stretching my legs, maybe grabbing a pastel from the little Brazilian bakery down the block. But my notebook was burning a hole in my bag. Every time I left home, I hoped the world would hand me a story.

And then it did.

At first, I thought my eyes were playing tricks on me. But no, there, darting between the legs of a man juggling grocery bags, was a tiny flash of orange fur and the unmistakable jingle of a bell. An orange kitten, tail high, weaving through the crowd like he had an appointment at rush hour.

I stopped dead on the sidewalk, my heart lurching. “Ai, meu Deus,” I whispered, digging for my notebook.

The kitten shot toward the subway entrance like he knew exactly where he was going. People swerved around him, cursing, but he never slowed down. It was like watching a scene straight out of one of my favorite Studio Ghibli movies, Whisper of the Heart. The image hit me so hard I laughed. In the movie, the girl follows a cat through Tokyo, and it changes her whole life.

“Oh my God,” I muttered, snapping my notebook open and scribbling a line: Cat as fate. Cat as guide. My handwriting was a mess, my mitten barely staying on as I wrote, but I didn’t care.

I hurried after him, half-running, half-talking to myself. “Okay, gato misterioso, where are you taking me? Show me the story.” A couple of passersby shot me strange looks, but I ignored them. I was used to looking a little loca in public. Inspiration didn’t care about appearances.

The kitten paused at the top of the subway stairs, glanced back like he wanted to make sure I was following, then disappeared down into the station. I gasped, scribbled Cheshire vibes. Guide to destiny, and bolted after him.

“Don’t lose him, don’t lose him,” I chanted under my breath as I flew down the stairs. My boots clattered, my scarf nearly strangled me, and I almost tripped on the last step, but I caught myself. The bell jingled again, faint but clear, and my pulse quickened.

He darted past the turnstiles, small enough to slip right through the gap, and headed for the platform. I pressed my notebook against my chest, laughing breathlessly. “This is it. This is the sign.”

In my head, I could already see it, the heroine chasing her destiny in the form of a mischievous cat, her whole life about to change. I wrote as I ran, messy lines sprawling across the page.

What I didn’t know was that the story wasn’t just for my book. It was about to be mine, too.

The subway platform was chaos, people shoving past each other, announcements blaring overhead, the cold air from the tunnels whipping at our coats. For a second, I thought I’d lost him. Then I heard it, the faint jingle of that bell. I spun toward the sound, and there he was, the orange kitten, sitting primly on a bench like he was just another commuter waiting for the next train.

I gasped and scribbled in my notebook with one hand, breathless. Cat as oracle. Cat as destiny’s passenger. The words sprawled crookedly across the page. My other hand clutched the strap of my bag like it was the only thing tethering me to Earth.

The train screeched into the station. Doors slid open, and before I could blink, the kitten hopped on board with all the confidence in the world.

“Oh, no, you don’t,” I muttered, shoving through the crowd to follow him. My scarf tangled, my mitten nearly caught in the door, but I slipped inside just before it closed.

The train lurched forward, and I spotted him again, sitting on the seat like a tiny king, his tail curled neatly, golden eyes staring straight ahead. I sat down beside him, my notebook clutched to my chest, grinning like a lunatic.

“Olá, gato misterioso,” I whispered, leaning closer. “Where are you taking me, hein? Vai me mostrar a história?”

He didn’t even look at me. Just flicked his tail once, eyes fixed on the dark window as if he knew the way.

I giggled to myself, pulling out my pen again. “You’re like Moon from Whisper of the Heart,” I told him, scribbling furiously. “Taking me to my own adventure.”

The man across the aisle gave me a look like I’d escaped from somewhere. I smiled sweetly at him and went right back to whispering to the kitten.

When the train slowed at the next stop, the kitten hopped off like it was his cue. I scrambled after him, muttering, “Ai caramba, espera por mim!” My notebook flapped in my hand, pages bent, pen barely hanging on, but I didn’t care.

The streets above ground were busier, filled with people hustling between shops and the December chill. The kitten wove through them like a tiny orange streak, his blue bell jingling like a beacon. I darted after him, nearly colliding with a man carrying a Christmas tree on his shoulder.

“Desculpa! Sorry!” I yelled over my shoulder, laughing breathlessly as I kept running.

People stared as I muttered under my breath in Portuguese, scolding the kitten like he was a naughty child. “Volta aqui, seu pestinha! I’m not done with you yet!” My curls bounced into my face, my boots slipped on a patch of ice, but I kept going.

The kitten dodged under a food cart, then darted between two bundled-up teenagers who squealed as he brushed their legs. I followed without hesitation, my notebook nearly flying out of my grip. Someone shouted at me to watch where I was going, and I shouted back, “It’s important!”

By now, my cheeks burned from the cold and the chase, but my heart was racing with a thrill I hadn’t felt in months. It wasn’t just a cat anymore. It was a story unfolding in real time, dragging me along whether I was ready or not.

The kitten finally slowed ahead, his tail high, his little bell chiming with each step as he approached a tall black gate. He glanced back once, those golden eyes meeting mine like he was checking to make sure I was still behind him.

“Oh, I’m here,” I told him, breathless, clutching my notebook. “You’re not getting rid of me that easy.”

And with that, he slipped through the gate into someplace I didn’t recognize.

I skidded to a stop in front of it, panting, clutching my notebook like a lifeline.

“Ah, não! You can’t just leave me out here!” I hissed at the metal. The gate was locked, and a thick chain looped through it. I looked up, biting my lip. Beyond it was a wide bay with gleaming red fire trucks and the faint smell of smoke and grease. A firehouse.

Of course. The cat of destiny led me to a firehouse.

“Carolina, você é louca,” I muttered, but my hands were already on the cold metal bars. I couldn’t stop now. He’d brought me this far.

I hauled myself up, ignoring the way my scarf tangled and my bag thumped against my hip. My boots weren’t made for climbing, but adrenaline and sheer stubbornness pushed me over halfway. I could still hear the faint jingle of his bell inside, taunting me.

“Almost… got it,” I muttered, gritting my teeth as I swung a leg over the top. That’s when it happened, my pant leg snagged on the edge.

“No, não, não, não…”

The fabric tore with a sickening rip, and suddenly I was tipping forward. My notebook slipped from my hands, pages fluttering like wounded birds as I flailed.

“Shit!” I yelped, half in English, half in Portuguese.

Instead of hitting cold concrete, I landed hard against something solid and warm. Strong arms wrapped around me, catching me before I could slam to the ground. My breath whooshed out, and my hair fell into my face as I clung instinctively.

For a moment, I couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. All I knew was the thunder of my heart and the steady rhythm of someone else’s chest beneath my cheek.

I looked up and froze.