Today Mike Mander had received a letter. It was written on an old fashioned type writer. Someone wanted a book redrawn, said something about giving cats a bad reputation. The Dreaming. A dystopian story of a world were cats ruled, keeping humans as slaves for food and play. Some crazy cat person for sure. He crushed the paper and threw it in the bin. It was late, the sun was going down.
He usually walked home. It wasn’t very far if he took the short cut though the industrial port. There was an old house on the hill. It always had light on in one of higher windows. The rest of the house was dark. It must have stood there long before most of the port, when there were still natural beaches and rocks down there, now it was falling apart. He wondered who was living there.
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