A person in a blanket watches a blurry city street from a kitchen window, while a tabby cat floats in mid-air indoors.

Create an image for the following fiction: Resident Blinding morning sun, so I woke up. I was a ghost with an address. People hurried in the street, as coldly quiet as the air. No one saw me walk. Something scratched my face. I woke again. My cat jumped off my chest, off the bed, and meowed. Before that, it had been another dream about haunting a nameless city. I wrapped my blanket around my body and stood beside the kitchen window, still defrosting from steam in the coffee maker. I watched the same people hurrying in the street, abstracted by the dissolving frost, but, unlike the dream, they were loud. People shouted over traffic, against the freezing air, joining the collective ambient distortion of a city on Monday morning. Everything was routine. Robert, my cat, began scratching at nothing. His paws moved as if meeting resistance, claws extending and retracting against empty air. He made a short, startled sound—half a meow, cut off—and his legs began pedaling faster, frantic, as if he had slipped off a surface he could almost feel. Then his body lifted—slowly, unmistakably. Suspended, Robert pressed his paws downward, flattening them as if against an invisible shelf. His tail lashed hard. A low, vibrating growl came from his chest, aimed at nothing. He hung there long enough for me to register the impossibility of it before dropping onto the floor with a dull, unceremonious thud, as if someone had simply let go of him. Robert stared at the space where he had floated. He Ver más