"Remind me why I agreed to this again?" he muttered.
"Because you have no choice," Farah said, crouching down with a plastic bag in hand. She pulled out a small tin of cat food, her movements practiced and deliberate.
"You're way too invested in this," Aimi said, watching her tap the tin with a spoon.
"Shh," she whispered. "He's shy. You'll scare him off."
Aimi rolled his eyes but stayed quiet.
Moments later, a small, scruffy cat emerged from the shadows. Its fur was a patchwork of gray and white, and its eyes darted between Farah and Aimi with suspicion.
"There you are, buddy!" Farah cooed, placing the food on the ground. The cat hesitated for a moment before cautiously approaching.
Aimi crossed his arms, watching the scene unfold. "You really come out here every day for this guy?"
"Of course," Farah said, her voice soft. "Someone has to look out for him."
The cat began eating, its movements quick and jerky, like it didn't trust the peace to last.
Aimi felt a strange pang in his chest as he watched. "Does he have a name?"
"Not yet," Farah said, glancing up at him. "You wanna name him?"
He snorted. "Why would I? He's your project."
"Because you're here," she said simply.
Aimi looked at the cat again. Its ears twitched as it ate, its tail flicking in what he guessed was contentment. "Fine," he said after a moment. "How about... Scribbles?"
Farah blinked. "Scribbles?"
"Yeah. He looks like someone smudged ink all over him."
Farah stared at him for a second before bursting into laughter. "Okay, that's actually kind of cute."
Aimi scratched the back of his neck, suddenly feeling self-conscious. "Whatever. Don't make a big deal out of it."
Farah smiled, her laughter fading into a softer expression. "See? That's what I'm talking about. You notice little things like that. You've got an eye for details, Aimi. You just need to put that into your writing."
Aimi glanced at her, then back at the cat. Scribbles, now. The little guy had finished eating and was licking his paws, looking much less wary than before.
"Maybe," he said quietly.
Farah stood, brushing dirt off her jeans. "Come on. I'll buy you another coffee if you promise to rewrite that disaster of a manuscript."
"Deal," Aimi said, surprising himself.
As they walked back to the café, Aimi couldn't help glancing over his shoulder at Scribbles, still sitting in the alley.
For the first time in weeks, he felt the tiniest spark of inspiration. Maybe Farah was right. Maybe there was something worth writing about in the small, messy details of real life.
He'd just have to figure out how to make it work.
---
Hours later,
Aimi flopped onto his bed, exhausted. Scribbles, Farah, and the unsolicited life advice had drained him. He tossed his bag to the floor, narrowly missing a pile of rejected manuscript pages. As his head hit the pillow, the weight of his grandmother's old watch on his wrist caught his attention.
"Why do I even wear this thing?" he muttered, lifting his arm to inspect the rusty artifact. The watch's cracked face and tarnished edges made it look more like a flea market find than an heirloom.
But as he stared at it, a memory surfaced—one he hadn't thought about in a week ago.
---
It was a rainy afternoon a week ago. Aimi sat cross-legged on the floor of his grandmother's cramped living room, flipping through a stack of old photo albums. The faint smell of incense lingered in the air, mingling with the aroma of freshly brewed tea.
His grandmother bustled in with a tray, her movements as swift and deliberate as ever. She set it down, pouring two cups of tea before plopping onto the cushion across from him.
"You're too young to waste your time on all this writing," she said, sipping her tea.
Aimi frowned, setting the album aside. "It's not a waste. I just… haven't figured out how to make it work yet."
She raised an eyebrow, her expression sharp despite the wrinkles framing her face. "Making it work isn't the same as making it matter. Do you know the difference?"
"No, but I bet you're going to tell me," Aimi replied, smirking.
His grandmother chuckled, setting her cup down. She reached into her pocket and pulled out a small, old watch. The leather strap was cracked, and the brass casing was dulled by time. She held it out to him.
"What's this?" he asked, taking it cautiously.
"This," she said, her tone lowering, "is a gift from the gods."
Aimi blinked, unsure if she was joking. "Uh, what?"
"You heard me," she said, leaning forward. "Your great-grandfather received this watch from Anubis himself. It's tied to our family's lineage. A reminder of our duty to the gods."
He stared at her, then back at the watch. "Grandma, are you feeling okay? Did you mix up your tea with one of your… incense rituals again?"
She smacked his arm lightly. "I'm serious, boy! Our family has always been connected to the gods. This watch is proof. It only works for those chosen by them."
Aimi turned the watch over in his hands, unimpressed. "It doesn't even work. The hands are stuck."
"That's because it's not meant to tell time," she said, her voice dropping to a near whisper. "It's meant to guide you when the gods deem you ready."
He laughed, setting the watch on the table. "Alright, you've officially lost it. Do I get superpowers with this thing, too? Like a cosmic wristwatch of destiny?"
His grandmother's eyes narrowed. "Mock me all you want, but one day, you'll see. When this watch lights up, you'll know your time has come."
"Sure, Grandma," he said, humoring her as he picked up the watch again. "I'll keep it safe just in case Anubis needs me to babysit Cerberus or something."
She didn't laugh. Instead, she gave him a look that sent a small chill down his spine.
"Don't take this lightly, Aimi," she said. "The gods are always watching. Whether you believe it or not."
---
Back in the present, Aimi sighed, staring at the watch. It hadn't glowed. It hadn't done anything, actually. Just like his writing career.