Within a week, the sign was gone. The shop was empty, save for a single, stray ginger hair on the mahogany counter. The townspeople stayed quiet, but they all started talking to their cats a little more softly—just in case someone was still listening.
In a town where every storefront whispered of "Cash for Gold" or "We Buy Used Cars," a new sign appeared overnight in a dusty window on Main Street: we buy cats
"You buy cats?" Mrs. Gable demanded, clutching her handbag. "For what? Research? Fur?" Within a week, the sign was gone
The townspeople were baffled. Old Mrs. Gable, who lived in a house overflowing with tabby cats, marched in on Tuesday morning. She didn't want to sell her "babies," but she had to know what kind of monster was trading in feline lives. In a town where every storefront whispered of
The man smiled, a slow, thin expression. "No, madam. For their stories. You see, a cat is a living record of every secret told in a kitchen at midnight. They are the only creatures that witness the things we think no one sees."