Down the sacred road, small paws tread softly on worn stone. A golden-eyed cat watches from shadowed arch. He sees what mortals miss in haste and noise. Morning light cuts through columns, warming his fur. He blinks slowly, keeper of old temple ways. No statue moves, but his tail flicks once. That means rain, or perhaps invasion near. Priests once studied his gaze for state signs. Now only wind remembers those rituals well. Yet still he comes at twilight’s first true hush. He circles the altar where fire once climbed high. Every night, he guards what gods left behind.