He didn’t even look at it again. The ritual that had governed his entire year dissolved in a single choice. The door didn’t matter anymore, because the person it was supposed to deliver was already here.
That evening, my brother made dinner. Axel followed him into the kitchen this time. Not frantic, not clingy. Just present.
He sat near the stove and watched my brother move through the space, like he was remapping the choreography he’d memorized before. When my brother opened the fridge, Axel’s tail twitched. When he pulled out vegetables, Axel chirped—little check-ins, little confirmations.
Yes, this is real. Yes, you’re home. Yes, I’m still here.
We ate together, the three of us—my brother and I at the table, Axel on the floor nearby with his own bowl—and it felt, for the first time in a year, like a home instead of a waiting room. After dinner, my brother went to take a shower.
I expected Axel to follow, to sit outside the bathroom door and wait, to panic at the closed door and the sound of running water. He didn’t. He walked to his bed, climbed in, and watched the hallway.
Calm. Patient. And when my brother came out twenty minutes later, hair wet, wearing clean clothes that smelled like soap and normalcy, Axel stood.
He walked over, sniffed him thoroughly, then head-butted his shin and walked back to bed, like he was saying, “Okay. You passed. You came back. We’re good.”
That night, my brother set up his old sleeping space. The bed he’d left made, the sheets still clean because I’d washed them once a month even though no one was using them. Axel jumped up before my brother even finished pulling back the covers.
He claimed the pillow, sprawled across it like he owned it. My brother laughed. “That’s my pillow, buddy.”
Axel blinked slowly. Didn’t move. “Fine,” my brother said. “You win.”
He climbed into bed, worked himself around Axel’s sprawled form, and turned off the light. I stood in the doorway for a second, watching them settle. Watching Axel shift just enough to press his side against my brother’s ribs.
Watching my brother’s arm curl around him automatically, like it had never stopped. “Good night,” I said quietly.
My brother’s voice came back soft through the dark. “Night. And hey… thank you. For keeping him. For not giving up on him.”
“I didn’t keep him,” I said. “He kept himself. I just made sure he had food.”
Silence. Then, “He’s lucky he had you.”
“We’re all lucky,” I said. And I meant it. I closed the door and went to my own room.
I lay in bed listening to the apartment settle. No pacing. No chirping at the door.
No waiting. Just the quiet sound of two breathing patterns finding their rhythm again. The next morning, I woke up early.
I made coffee, sat at the kitchen table, and watched the sun come up through the window. Around 6:30 AM, I heard movement from my brother’s room. The door opened.
My brother appeared, Axel draped across his shoulders like a living scarf, purring into his ear. “Morning,” my brother said.
“Morning,” I said. “Sleep okay?”
“Best I’ve slept in a year.” Axel chirped. My brother reached up and scratched under his chin, and Axel’s purr kicked up a notch.
They moved through the morning routine like they had never been interrupted. My brother made breakfast; Axel supervised. My brother sat down to eat; Axel sat on the table.
Still breaking rules, still getting away with it. My brother finished, washed his dishes, and Axel hopped down and followed him to the couch. But this time, Axel didn’t climb into his lap.
He sat beside him. Close, but not on top of him. And when my brother turned on the TV, Axel settled into his spot, head on his paws, watching the screen with half-closed eyes.
It looked normal. It looked easy. It looked like nothing had ever been broken.
But I knew better. I’d seen the waiting. I’d seen the cost.
I’d seen what it takes to hold on to something when the world keeps trying to convince you to let go. Axel hadn’t just waited for my brother to come home. He’d refused to believe the bond could be erased by distance.
He turned waiting into an act of faith. And when the door finally opened, when the year finally ended, he didn’t fall apart. He didn’t punish.
He didn’t hesitate. He chose the bond. Again.
Harder. Deeper. Later that afternoon, my brother looked at me from the couch, Axel asleep beside him, and said, “I thought I was coming home to see if he still remembered me.”
“And?” I asked.
“He wasn’t waiting to see if he remembered. He was waiting to remind me that I promised to come back.”
I didn’t have anything to say to that, because he was right. Axel hadn’t spent a year doubting. He’d spent it trusting.
Even when trust looked like sitting alone at a door that never opened. Even when trust meant waiting through silence. The door had kept its promise, but only because Axel never stopped believing it would.
Three days later, I walked past the front door and realized something. The canvas mouse wasn’t there. It wasn’t by the door.
It wasn’t in the boot. It wasn’t anywhere in sight. I found it eventually, tucked into Axel’s bed, buried under his favorite blanket.
Retired. Put away. Because he didn’t need it anymore.
He had the real thing back. And the door? It was just a door again.
Something that opened and closed and didn’t carry the weight of a year anymore. Axel walked past it a dozen times a day and never looked twice. He didn’t need to.
The person he’d been waiting for was already home. And this time, he wasn’t going anywhere.
