When my staff began to travel a lot more, I implemented a paid 'rest' day when they got back home. It allowed for simple things like laundry and catching up with family, and it boosted morale greatly.

Today was supposed to be my rest day, but sitting idle was never really my strength.

Music blared through the house speakers as I mopped the floor. Even though I hadn't been home in almost a week, it was amazing how much dirt and dust still crept in and settled. Like a pest infestation with emotional baggage.

Memories seemed to be a lot like that. Creeping in, piling up until BAM! I mused, slapping the mop down rather hard on a splatter of coffee that had dried on the tile and scrubbing, as if I was scrubbing memories away as well.

The doorbell chimed loudly, cutting through the music. I paused my wet assault on the tile and waited. I mean, it was clear I was home, but I could be stubborn when I wasn't in the mood for strangers at my door.

The music changed to a softer one, and the doorbell rang again - twice in rapid succession.

You've got to be freaking kidding me, I mentally growled, pulling my phone from my back pocket and checking the doorbell cam.

I half expected someone trying to sell me on solar or a church group. I wasn't anticipating staring up the nose of a feline as it sniffed the doorbell camera noisily.

"Ziggy, stop music," I called loudly, cutting off the music from playing. From my phone, I could see a second little head pop up and all but scream at the door.

"I'm coming, keep your tail on, Beans," I called back, setting the mop aside and making my way through the living room to the front door.

Beans howled back and the second cat, Morph, pushed the doorbell again with all the dignity of someone placing a formal complaint.

I wanted to be annoyed, but instead I laughed—soft and involuntary. Morph was a sleek silver tabby with an old soul and an attitude to match. He'd shown up last winter, frost on his whiskers, a fresh amount of scrapes and scratches on his face and body, and zero regard for personal space. Morph didn't meow so much as make judgmental grandpa noises. Beans, on the other hand, was a wiry and twitchy tortie, a stray I'd caught digging in my trash like it was a buffet. He'd decided to adopt me, yowling and playing sentinel at my back door until I gave in.

They weren't indoor cats—not really—but they knew this was their place, too. When I was home, they dropped in like clockwork. Sometimes for food. Sometimes for company. Sometimes, I suspected, just to make sure I hadn't disappeared.

I opened the door. "Well? You rang?"

Beans darted in with a chirping meow and made a beeline for the kitchen like he was late for a meeting. Morph took his time, tail held high as he padded in and gave me a long, judgmental once-over.

"Yes, I've been gone. No, I didn't die. You're both very dramatic."