I placed the small yellow flower on the mound of dirt, the wind brushing through my fur as I crouched by the grave. It was an ugly flower, to be honest. Not the type humans like. Crumpled, half wilted, picked up from beside the road. But it was the only one I could find today. It was for her. For Aira.

My name is Nayla. I am not like other cats. I do not die. I do not age. I wander through lifetimes, through cities and wars, across fields and through storms. I have walked with kings and crouched beside beggars. I have seen many lives, many endings. But of all the stories I have gathered through the centuries, hers... hers is the one that always clings to the back of my throat, like a bone I cannot cough out.

It was raining that evening, a bad kind of rain. Cold. Sharp. Not the type you dance in. I was looking for somewhere dry. My paws were sore, my belly empty. I darted between rusted bicycles and garbage bins, hoping for a ledge, a corner, anything. And then I saw her.

A little girl, sitting alone on the steps of a small cracked house. She was thin, not the cute kind of thin, but the kind that made my old heart twist. Her long hair stuck to her face, and she was not crying, but she looked like someone who had cried so long, the tears forgot how to fall. Scars mapped her small arms. Some old, some new, some healing wrong. Her round eyes stared at nothing.

Then the voice came, loud and sharp.

"Aira! What are you doing in the rain again?"

A hand yanked her inside. The door slammed. I crept to the window and poked my nose near the glass. I always see too much, even when I wish not to.

Inside, the woman — her mother, I assumed — screamed.

"Why are you like your useless father? I hate seeing your face. I hate you."

Aira did not speak. She did not cry. She just flinched when the spoon hit her shoulder. A big metal one, the kind used to stir curry. Again. Again. Again. Then, silence. The woman stormed out. The door slammed again.

Aira sat on the floor, trembling like a small bird. She took off her soaked shirt. I saw more of them. Cigarette burns. Welts from a belt. Pinches. Some were scabbed, others still bled. She licked a deep scratch on her collarbone and whimpered. I settled on the window ledge, the cold glass below me. I watched as she curled on her mattress, no blanket, just her sobs to warm her.

That night I stayed there. I slept to the rhythm of her pain, her small frame shivering as if her dreams hurt too.

The next morning, there was banging. Loud, angry.

"Aira. Open the door."

She shuffled to it. Her father. Tall, greasy hair, the smell of something bitter on his clothes.

"Your mother left," he said. "Gone with her boyfriend. It is divorce day."

He said it like it was something funny.

Aira looked at the clock. It was afternoon. She had slept all day.

"She did not even say goodbye," she whispered.

The man did not reply. Just staggered into the house. Aira sat at the table, silent, hungry. The fridge was almost empty. Only a jar of pickle, a few slices of dry bread, and some expired milk. I watched as she swallowed a piece of bread dry, like it was treasure.

Days passed. Sixteen of them.

No school. No friends. No light. Just hunger and silence. Her father mostly stayed out, came back smelling of smoke and alcohol. When she finally dared to ask for food, he looked at her for the first time in days.

He left without a word. Came back later with snacks. Packets of biscuits, a half-eaten packet of parota from some street shop. They sat at the table and ate together. Aira smiled, a small one, like a flicker of a dying candle.

Then he said, "Pack your bag."

She did not ask why. Just obeyed. She packed four dresses, the ones with no holes, and a few underclothes. She folded them neatly, as if it mattered.

For the first time, her father let her ride with him. On his scooter. She held onto him loosely. I hopped onto the side pouch when they were not looking. Cats are good at hiding.

The vehicle stopped in front of a building. White walls, faded blue board. Children playing in the mud.

Aira looked around. "Is this a school?"

"Stay here for a while," he said.

He kissed her head. The first time ever, maybe. He turned. Walked away. Never looked back. I knew he would not come again.

I wanted to go in. But the guards saw me. Kicked a stone. Cats are not allowed in.

So I sat on the gate wall for hours. Days. Weeks. But she never came out.

She grew up inside there. I do not know what happened. But when she turned eighteen, she came out. With a bag and an address. The old house. The only thing they left behind.

She started working. Small jobs. Waitress, helper, receptionist. She used every rupee on two things. Food and medicine. That is all she could afford. No parties. No luxuries. Just survival.

"I just want peace, Nayla," she told me once. "I do not want big dreams. Just quiet. Just a day where nothing hurts."

She would come home, tired, hands red from washing dishes. She would boil rice, sometimes noodles. Always shared with me. A little plate on the floor. She never forgot.

Some evenings, she sat on the floor and sketched. In an old notebook. Birds, trees, a girl with a cat. Sometimes she hummed soft songs. Sometimes she cried while brushing my fur.

At night, we slept on the mat. I curled on her chest. Her heart beat like a soft drum.

We were quiet. We were lonely. But we had each other.

Then came the last night.

She coughed. Again and again. Her hands were cold. She stared at her medicine bottles. Took them. But I saw. They were not for her illness. They were something else.

She laid down. Pulled me close.

"I am tired, Nayla. So tired."

I licked her hand. Purred. She smiled, very small.

That night, she did not wake.

I meowed. Licked her cheek. No movement. Her breath was gone.

I meowed louder. Yowled. Clawed the door. Called the world.

Someone came. A man. He peeked inside, saw her. Shouted.

People came. Ambulance. White lights. They tried at hospital. Machines. Wires. But she was already gone.

A nurse opened her drawer. Found a letter.

They read it aloud.

"Please do not burn me. I want to go back to the earth. Let the soil have me. Maybe something good will grow from me."

So they buried her.

I followed. I sat beside her grave.

And I still do.

Because I do not die.

And I do not forget.