Missing Link III

3
On the surface of the pristine white marble, the white cat sat, its tail draped like a snowflake over its paws, its demeanor one of watchful poise. My mind wrestled with the nature of what I had just shared, wondering if it had been mere fiction or a dream laden with ambiguity.It felt as if I were grappling with the very essence of existence, thrust into an unforeseen crisis of meaning. The cat's eyes lazily opened and closed, before it deliberately shifted its gaze towards the white bookshelf.Perhaps it sensed the disarray within me and sought to divert my attention from the chasm of uncertainty. Swiftly, it bounded from the floor to the bookshelf, displaying a mesmerizing acrobatic feat as it contorted its path through the air—a display that left me astounded.But it was the cat's response to my musings that truly left an impression. It might have been content with my answer or anticipated something different—disentangling its intent from its words proved elusive.I ventured to clarify, "Why did you ask?"The cat's reply was enigmatic, its words cryptically cautionary. "You might be better off not probing that question."Perplexed, I raised an eyebrow, taken aback by the unexpected response. I had posed the question for a reason, making the cat's answer all the more puzzling.—Before the conversation could unfold further, a familiar voice sliced through the air, breaking our exchange. "Blur! What are you up to? Everyone's waiting.""Just give me a moment," I responded, selecting a book from the shelf and scrutinizing the title—a task I had intended to complete before the cat's peculiar dialogue.Satisfied that it was the very book I sought, I searched the room for the feline conversationalist, only to find it had vanished. It seemed the cat had passed the proverbial baton to someone else.Tucking the book under my arm, I maneuverer through the labyrinthine shelves, arriving at the entrance where the voice had originated. There stood a girl with wavy white hair and piercing blue eyes. A garland of flowers crowned her head, a tiara-like arrangement atop her white two-piece ensemble—short-sleeved shirt paired with matching shorts.A sheepish smile crossed her face as she waved, exuding an innocence befitting her age. We were peers, sharing the same youthful juncture, yet our physicality exhibited minimal divergence."Apologies for the wait, Aria," I offered, glossing over her flower-adorned appearance.Curious about my book, Aria leaned over and caught sight of the title, reciting it aloud, "Cake Recipes." She looked up, puzzled. "What's cake?"I provided a succinct explanation, delving into the concept. "It's a kind of sweet dish, something from a bygone civilization. And traditionally, it's served on special occasions like this."Her face lit up with delight, seized by the singular word that resonated—'sweet.' Aria's understanding seemed to revolve solely around the allure of sugar."You'll have to wait a bit for that sweetness, Aria," I cautioned, redirecting the conversation. With that, we strolled away from the library, stepping into the expanse of the white hallway.