It’s easy to walk into a room like this and forget the rest of the day exists.
A crowd of lucky cats—paint chipped, faces softened by time—sit under a scatter of green bulbs like they’ve been waiting for the lights to come on. The biggest one holds its paw up in that familiar invitation, the kind that feels half blessing and half inside joke. Around it, smaller cats gather in mismatched rows, each with its own expression: alert, smug, sleepy, watchful.
I visited them the way you visit old houses or quiet fields: slowly, trying not to disturb whatever has settled there. There’s something comforting about repetition—cat after cat after cat—like a ritual you don’t have to understand to appreciate. The room hums with little details: the shine on worn paint, the soft shadows on the shelves, the sense that luck might be less a miracle and more a collection of small hopes.
Outside, the world keeps moving. In here, the cats keep their steady vigil, paw raised, asking for nothing and promising nothing—only making space for curiosity. I left feeling lighter, as if I’d been reminded that wonder can be ordinary, and that sometimes you can find it sitting quietly in a room full of statues.
