Universe’s Little Jokes
There’s something deceptive about a still morning. At seventeen, I thought the world was paused just for me: sunlight gently pressing on my back, air warm and steady, humming with a handful of sparrows darting in and out. The universe, I was convinced, was basically holding its breath, waiting for me to do something profound. Spoiler: I didn’t. One sparrow caught my eye as it drifted off on its own. Naturally, I followed — because that’s exactly the sort of thing a deep, thoughtful teenager would do, right? Drift along with nature and pretend to understand it. For a moment, I was the main character. Or at least, I thought I was. Until the curtain lifted. A blur of orange fur cut across the path, fast and silent. One leap, one muffled squeal, and the sparrow was gone. Just like that. Curtain down. Audience stunned. Lead actor dead before the first line. The culprit, you ask? Majestic and annoyingly fluffy, with copper eyes that caught mine for just a ...