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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/nabroc03 on 2026-05-15 04:12:03+00:00.

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I’m sorry for panicking with the title, but forgive me, I’m, well, panicked. You know when the dread reaches that point where you feel like nothing could possibly get you relaxed? That's how it's feeling. However, I realize that if I want to remember this story, much less tell it, I need to figure out how to calm down. How to relax.

It’s very important I write this; probably just as important you read this. As I try to compose myself and get this out, I ask that you bear with this account, as I’m pretty forgetful and have a hard time getting my thoughts in a straight line. But I’ll try my best. Let me take five minutes, I’ll come back when I’m in a better headspace.

My name is Daniel. Everyone calls me Dan. I’m 26, and a little over a year ago, my cat died. Her name was Willow, a little brown and black tortoiseshell with green eyes who never meowed unless it was time to eat. That was her little quirk. No matter how she was feeling, Willow never purred, hissed, growled, or anything. The only thing that got a sound to escape her jaws was opening the wet food cans. I sometimes thought that’s all she lived for. Even though she slept in my bed every night and loved to prance around the backyard, I imagined she really just lived for those 2 times a day where she’d stare up at me, give a loud, long meow, and follow me to her bowl, tail straight up in the air, practically bouncing with each step.

Needless to say, her death was hard for me. She was one of my best friends.

Some days ago, over a week, actually, marked exactly one year of Willow being gone. However, waking up that morning I didn’t know it yet. In fact, the only thing I could think of was just how off I felt when I opened my eyes. That’s the best way to describe it. Just off. Have you ever gotten those spring allergies where you don’t feel “sick,” just a bit out of it? It was like that. I spent some time mulling over what it was I was feeling, until the day’s number, the 18th of March, caught my eye on my phone. I closed my eyes in realization for a moment, sitting on the side of my bed as I slowly woke up.

From that evidence, I chalked up my weird feelings to some sort of internal clock. Maybe my body knew today was a date that involved a lot of sadness, and that’s why I felt so out of place. Who knows? I live in a humid climate, and it’s more than a little common for homes to have hidden mold problems. Maybe I’ve got one in my room. Whatever it was, today was Monday and I had to get to work, so I tried not to think much of it and got ready to leave.

I work in an office. I don’t think I need to elaborate on exactly what I do. That's not too important to me. If I’m being honest, sometimes I forget. It includes lots of paperwork and finances. I tend to refer to my job as doing math for money, as it helps me not take it too seriously in the case of stress or a bad day.

Come to think of it, maybe it's important I include some details on what the place looks like. Maybe some of you will know what I'm talking about on the off chance you live close to my neighborhood and the surrounding stores, shopping centers and the like. First of all, the building is tall for being near a relatively suburban area; maybe 8 or 10 stories. It’s covered in tinted reflective glass without too much separation between each windowpane, like a rectangular disco ball that’s not as shiny. It's smack dab in the middle of the complex, and there's a pizza shop two buildings down on the left. On the right is a mostly undeveloped space. There's some nice bushes, and behind the building is a grassy field that ends in a short hill. The entrance is a substantial glass door, the nice sturdy type with those thick, black handles. Right above it is the name of the company I work for. Tell me if this is familiar name to you:

Murloy & Associates

The interior is a lot less drab than the name implies. We get a lot of natural light, which always feels nice, and my workspace is near a corner on the 4th floor, so I get a great view of the road and the shops nearby. Writing all this now, maybe I shouldn’t complain so much while working. It’s not so bad. That's one thing I noticed last Monday too, just how positive I felt going into work, like I was relieved of something.

Upon arriving I knew that whatever I’d been feeling that morning had gone away completely. Willow died, sure, but that was a year ago. I loved that cat, but for some reason I didn’t let myself get down about it too much, which was unusual. Whenever I thought about it in the past, I might get a little sad for some time, reminisce a bit, think about getting a new cat, the whole train of thought when you lose a beloved pet. Today, though? Almost nothing, like she was disappearing from my memory without me losing the memory of her, if that makes sense. Everything felt perfectly fine.

Listen, I’m not the biggest optimist, if that wasn't obvious enough. I’m nervous, I overthink, I forget. Most of my problems are my own making. So I’m not trying to sound sappy when I say that feeling so perfectly at ease was odd for me. I enjoyed it, that’s for sure, but still questioned it. One of my co-workers – Angela was her name – even noticed.

“Feeling chipper today?” she asked after I exclaimed “thank you” as she dropped a folder on my desk. I took a second to respond, moving the folder of papers to one side.

“It’s warmer today,” I said at length, which was a partially true answer. From what I’d heard around the office, a lot of us were ready for spring weather. The past few days were mostly rainy, and today marked gorgeous, nearly cloudless skies that reached a pleasant 75 degrees.

“Oh, I know, it’s beautiful,” Angela answered, and smiled at the window behind me. She tapped the doorframe twice. “No rush on those, by the way.”

“Ah, perfect,” I answered. “Thanks, I’m pretty slammed today.”

She exhaled in mock exhaustion, slumping forward with an exaggerated groan and rolling her eyes up. Then she righted herself, smiled and said, “Aren’t we all?”

I laughed, not politely, like I might most of the time, but with genuine amusement. I wondered if the office culture of half-rate humor was getting to me. Whatever the case, the workday went smoothly. But that ease, that feeling of everything being fine definitely didn't last.

On the way home, I began to feel the sensation again, the one I had this morning. Off. This time, the slightest twinge of anxiety poked at my chest. But I quickly pushed it off, the emotional momentum from that whole morning and afternoon giving me some motivation to keep feeling good.

I arrived at my front door and went inside.

Immediately, like a wave, intense dread crashed against me. I leaned my head forward and felt my knees threaten to buckle. Nausea rose. And then, as soon as it came, the feeling left. I hesitated afterwards, wondering what on earth just happened, then hung up my keys and made my way upstairs. Any optimism drained out of me as I entered my room and looked around, a creeping sadness slowly seeping into my person, quickly replacing my unease surrounding the event at the door. I remembered Willow.

The moment she passed, I’d gotten rid of everything that reminded me of her, just to avoid that extra hit of "oh, now this?" when I'd get home from work on a bad day. I didn't need that. Sure, there was grief that I allowed myself - I’d lost one of my best friends after all - but I’d gotten over it. Why was I feeling this way? It's like I was replaying that very day a year ago, as if she’d just died in my arms.

I felt stupid, but cried, nevertheless, on the floor of my room.

When I felt too ashamed to keep letting tears spill out of my eyes, I sat up and stayed put for a few minutes, thinking. I looked down at my clothes, remembering how much she used to shed everywhere.

"Wait," I said aloud, then paused. "Wait, that's not right."

I recalled something then.

Since her death, I had never seen a stray piece of fur. Not once. Wouldn’t it make sense for her shed hairs to end up in the dryer lint, around my room, on my clothes, at least a few weeks after she died? I don’t clean that thoroughly, but something told me even the most professionally cleaned house couldn’t be immune to something like a grain of litter or cat hairs. I would have remembered seeing those things. Wouldn't I?

I ran through my mind, trying to think of a single thing that I hadn’t cleaned for a long time. My first thought was the fan. I never used it.

Quickly, I got up and pulled my bed frame under it. I stepped up onto the mattress and turned some of the blades, scanning the tops.

Dirty? Very. Cat hairs? None. Just a coating of grey dust that smelled musty and clung tightly to the white plastic. I even swiped some off to see it fall, expecting a few drifting hairs, but only saw clumps of dust. But it then occurred to me that if I never used my fan, why would I find cat hairs on it?

“That makes sense,” I muttered to myself, and pushed my bed back into place.

By now I was starting to get very confused. I should have been this whole time, but the mind has a way of burying things for the sake of living life until things get really serious. So this confusion told me I needed to figure something out. Fast.

I remember having a cat. But my home said otherwise. It was like she never stepped foot in my room, but that can’t be possible, since she spent nearly all her time in here and was also an indoor cat.

I walked over ...

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