The first time Larius noticed it, he assumed it was a coincidence.
The second time, he got suspicious.
By the fifth time, he was annoyed.
The song kept appearing.
Not literally.
Not some mysterious glitch in reality.
Just a piano piece that kept finding its way into his playlists.
Coffee shop speakers.
Library background music.
Recommended videos.
Even the startup office somehow played it through someone's headphones loudly enough to leak into the lobby.
At first he didn't care.
Then he started recognizing it.
Then he started anticipating certain parts.
Then he realized he actually liked it.
That realization bothered him.
Because two weeks ago he hadn't liked it.
He was fairly certain of that.
Yet somehow familiarity had quietly become preference.
Larius sat in his apartment one evening staring at his phone.
The song played softly through a speaker on the counter.
"...that's manipulative."
The piano continued existing.
"It shouldn't work like that."
The piano remained unconcerned.
Larius sighed.
Another thing apparently improved through repetition.
Wonderful.
The list kept growing.
Breathing.
Stretching.
Library shelving.
Sign language.
Flowers.
Now music.
Everything seemed to operate under the same ridiculous rule.
Keep showing up.
Apparently reality was obsessed with consistency.
1
Los Angeles looked different these days.
Not because the city had changed.
Because he was finally paying attention.
The bus ride to work passed through the same neighborhoods every week.
At first it had all blurred together.
Buildings.
People.
Traffic.
Noise.
Now he noticed patterns.
A street musician near the transit station.
Every Thursday.
A taco truck parked beside a repair shop.
Every Friday.
A woman walking four dogs at exactly the same time every morning.
A man opening a bookstore before sunrise.
A florist unloading flowers before most people woke up.
The city suddenly felt less random.
Millions of routines stacked on top of each other.
People repeating small actions until they became part of the landscape.
The realization fascinated him.
And for reasons he couldn't explain—
it made the city feel larger.
Not smaller.
2
The cat café happened by accident.
At least that was what Larius told himself.
The truth was slightly more embarrassing.
He had seen it three times during bus rides.
Then twice while walking.
Then once while buying coffee.
Eventually curiosity won.
The sign outside simply read:
Paws & Pause
Larius immediately disliked the name.
Then walked inside anyway.
The bell above the door chimed softly.
The smell surprised him.
Coffee.
Warm wood.
Cat fur.
A strange combination.
The room was filled with shelves, cushions, climbing towers, and cats.
Many cats.
Far more cats than seemed necessary.
One orange cat occupied an entire chair by itself.
Another slept upside down on a shelf.
A black cat sat on a counter judging humanity.
Larius was fairly certain about that last one.
The employee at the front desk smiled.
"First time?"
"...is it obvious?"
"You have the expression."
"What expression?"
"The one people get when they realize the cats choose them."
Larius frowned.
"What does that mean?"
The employee simply smiled.
"Good luck."
That answer was not helpful.
3
The cats ignored him.
Completely.
Utterly.
Professionally.
Larius sat in a chair.
Nothing.
He moved to another chair.
Still nothing.
A cat walked directly past him.
Paused.
Looked at him.
Then chose a different person.
The betrayal felt immediate.
"...seriously?"
The cat left without explanation.
An hour later he returned home.
Not angry.
Just strangely determined.
Which felt ridiculous.
Because it was a cat.
Yet somehow losing felt unacceptable.
4
Three days later he returned.
The same cat ignored him again.
A grey one this time.
Large ears.
Green eyes.
Permanent expression of disappointment.
Larius sat quietly.
The cat approached.
Hope appeared.
The cat sniffed his shoe.
Then left.
Hope departed.
"...I don't know what I expected."
The cat remained emotionally unavailable.
5
The flower shop found this hilarious.
Naturally.
Sofia laughed before he even finished explaining.
"No."
"I'm serious."
"No, I know."
She laughed again.
Fabian immediately looked interested.
Larius folded his arms.
"The cat doesn't like me."
Fabian grabbed his notebook.
Wrote quickly.
"Cat is smart."
Silence.
"...wow."
Fabian nodded confidently.
Larius looked toward Sofia.
"Your son is becoming increasingly hostile."
"He likes you."
"This is how he shows it?"
"Unfortunately."
Fabian looked completely unrepentant.
Then wrote another sentence.
"You try too hard."
That one landed.
Again.
Larius hated when children made sense.
6
The breathing exercises improved.
Then got worse.
Then improved again.
Which turned out to be normal.
Marcus informed him of this during conditioning.
"Progress isn't linear."
"Everything says that."
"Because it's true."
Larius sighed heavily.
The gym remained filled with people who somehow accepted suffering voluntarily.
He still didn't understand that.
Marcus watched him finish another movement.
"Better."
"...really?"
"Yes."
Larius frowned.
Because it hadn't felt better.
Marcus shrugged.
"Habits don't announce themselves."
The sentence lingered.
Not because it was profound.
Because it was annoying.
It sounded true.
7
The third visit to the cat café changed things slightly.
Not much.
Just enough.
The grey cat approached.
Sniffed his hand.
Allowed one pet.
Then immediately scratched him.
Not badly.
Just enough to establish boundaries.
Larius stared at the tiny mark.
The cat stared back.
"...that feels excessive."
The cat disagreed.
Apparently.
The employee nearly laughed herself off the counter.
"Congratulations."
"I got attacked."
"It acknowledged your existence."
Silence.
"...that's the same thing?"
"With some cats."
Larius wasn't sure whether that was reassuring.
8
The lily finally showed something.
Not a flower.
Not even close.
Just a tiny green shoot.
Barely visible.
Larius spent several seconds staring.
Then crouched closer.
Then closer.
Then immediately stood up because he was probably one minute away from accidentally breathing on it wrong.
The shoot remained tiny.
Insultingly tiny.
Yet undeniably real.
The sight lingered with him all day.
Because for weeks nothing had happened.
At least nothing visible.
Now suddenly—
there it was.
Proof.
Not dramatic.
Just evidence.
9
The fourth visit to the cat café happened almost automatically.
Which was strange.
Because he hadn't planned it.
He simply found himself walking there.
The city felt warmer that afternoon.
Street musicians played nearby.
People filled sidewalks.
Traffic rolled endlessly through distant intersections.
Los Angeles felt alive.
Messy.
Loud.
Repetitive.
Human.
Inside the café, the grey cat appeared again.
The employee waved.
"Back already?"
"...apparently."
The cat approached.
Then jumped onto the chair beside him.
Not his lap.
Close enough to be insulting.
Far enough to maintain dignity.
Larius accepted the compromise.
10
It happened a week later.
He was reading.
Not particularly well.
A cat moved.
He looked down.
The grey cat circled once.
Then twice.
Then climbed directly into his lap.
Larius froze.
The cat settled.
Curled into itself.
And went to sleep.
Silence.
The employee noticed immediately.
Her voice dropped.
"Don't move."
"...why?"
"You earned that."
Larius looked down.
The cat continued sleeping.
Completely unconcerned.
Trusting him.
The realization felt strangely heavy.
Because he hadn't done anything special.
No tricks.
No shortcuts.
No clever strategy.
He had simply shown up.
Again.
And again.
And again.
The cat never trusted him because he wanted trust.
The cat trusted him because he kept appearing.
The thought followed him all the way home.
Past traffic lights.
Past buses.
Past musicians.
Past people repeating routines they had repeated for years.
When he reached his apartment, he checked the lily.
The green shoot still stood there.
Tiny.
Stubborn.
Alive.
Larius stared at it for a long moment.
Then looked toward his notebook.
Toward the sign language pages.
The gym schedule.
The work calendar.
The budgeting notes.
None of them looked impressive.
But none of them had existed a month ago either.
The realization settled quietly somewhere inside him.
Not comfort.
Not certainty.
Just curiosity.
Because maybe habits weren't things people built.
Maybe habits were things that slowly built people.
He considered that thought carefully.
Then immediately frowned.
"...that's annoyingly philosophical."
The lily declined to comment.
The cat, somewhere across the city, almost certainly agreed with it.