It was a quiet Sunday morning, and the boy stood by the window watching his cat go about his usual business outside. The black-and-white creature ran up a tree, climbed back down again, sprinkled the bushes with great ceremony, and then began sauntering toward the old well.

The boy leaned closer. Mr Whiskers had hopped onto the stone rim.

Oh no. Not there, he thought.

The cat circled the edge twice, peered down as if listening to something only cats could hear, and then—without hesitation—leapt in.

The boy screamed.

“Mr Whiskers!”

He bolted out of the house, heart hammering, raced to the well and looked down. There was nothing. Only darkness.

He didn’t think.
He simply jumped after his beloved friend.

The boy had been falling for minutes, though it felt like an eternity. The walls of the well blurred into a single shadow, and then—suddenly—a pale light glimmered far below. As he rushed toward it, he saw clouds drifting lazily across a strip of blue sky. He blinked. What began as falling down now felt unmistakably like falling up.

As the light widened and the air grew warmer, he heard grumbly noises—someone sounding deeply uncomfortable. The fall slowed, slowed again, then stopped altogether just close enough for him to reach out, grab the edge, and pull himself free.

A shimmer of impossible colours trembled at the edge of his vision, but before he could take in this strange new world, a dissatisfied voice snapped, “Finally! It took you long enough. You humans arrive so heavy with expectations… and far too many conclusions!”

He spun around, but the clearing was empty. Only then did he notice the well behind him shuddering, as if adjusting its stones after a long, awkward stretch.

“Could it be…?” he whispered.

“Yes, ‘it could be’,” the well replied mockingly. “For a supposedly clever species, you take an awfully long time to notice the obvious.”

The boy flushed with embarrassment. He very much wanted to ask how a well could speak, but something told him he’d earn another reprimand.

“Could you please tell me where I am?” he ventured.

“You see? Slow,” the well sighed. “You are here, of course. Where else could you be?”

He thanked it—mostly out of habit—and decided no further questions were wise. He had never met a talking well before, certainly not one with a temper.

He started to walk away, then froze. The reason he had plunged into the well returned in a rush. He stepped back and gathered his courage.

“Excuse me… did a black-and-white cat arrive here before me?”

“Oh, felines,” the well said with surprising fondness. “They always slide through me so gracefully. A cat did arrive, yes. But I wouldn’t call it black and white. It seemed full of colour to me.”

The boy wasn’t sure what that meant—and chose not to ask. He simply nodded, thanked the well once more, and went to search for his possibly-more-than-black-and-white furry friend.

The initial shock of falling up and talking wells was beginning to fade, and the boy was finally taking in his surroundings. The whole world shimmered with a multitude of colours. Nothing seemed entirely solid; everything carried a strange fluidity, as if form itself were gently undecided.

Alongside the colours came scent and sound. The air smelled astonishingly fresh, laced with soft floral notes and the musky warmth of damp soil. The scents felt almost touchable, as if he could gather them in his hands.

Then he heard whispers—very faint—coming from below. He looked down and saw the grass swaying around his feet. He crouched closer.

“Oh yes, yes, he is quite heavy-footed. Not to worry, not to worry—we always bounce back,” murmured the blades of grass.

He froze. The grass was chatting. About him.

A wave of guilt washed over him. He straightened up at once, as if posture alone might lighten him, and placed his next steps with exaggerated care.

He was beginning to realise that everything in this world carried its own aliveness. Fascinating, yes—but also frightening. Every step, every word, could offend someone.

He approached a small hawthorn tree and spoke very carefully.
“Excuse me… I’m looking for my bla—” He caught himself. “My colourful cat. Have you seen it?”

The hawthorn’s voice was gentle, almost motherly.
“Hello, little one. You’re new here, aren’t you? Oh dear, you do look rather lost. Are you quite sure it’s a cat you’re looking for? I hope you find yourself first.”

The boy blinked, unsure whether that was meant literally.

“A cat did pass by,” the hawthorn continued. “Yes, yes. He went that way.” One of its branches stretched slowly to the left.

The boy, overwhelmed but grateful, thanked the tree and followed the path it indicated.

Before long he saw a small wooden house half-hidden beneath overgrown vines. He approached slowly, unsure what waited for him.

On the doorstep sat a cat.

It looked like Mr Whiskers—yet not quite. The well had been right. He was no longer merely black and white. A soft iridescent glow shimmered across his fur, catching every colour of the rainbow. His eyes were unlike anything that existed on the earthly plane: deeper, older, quietly powerful. Even his shape seemed larger, more present than the cat the boy knew.

“Mr Whiskers!” the boy exclaimed.

The cat lifted his head, granted him brief eye contact, and made no effort to approach.

An old woman stepped from the side of the house, brushing leaves from her sleeves.

“Did you just call him Mr Whiskers?” she asked, amusement curled in her voice.

“Yes, ma’am. He’s my cat. Mr Whiskers,” the boy replied, suddenly feeling protective under her curious gaze.

“Oh, he’s yours, is he?” she said lightly. “And you’re quite certain that’s his name. Very well. Why don’t you ask him what he calls himself?”

The boy opened his mouth to speak—but the cat answered first.

“You Wouldn’t Pronounce It Correctly.”

The boy’s eyes widened. He felt as though he both recognised his friend and had never once understood him.

“Well… could you at least try to tell me?” he asked.

“I just did,” the cat replied, already bored.

“That’s your name? You Wouldn’t Pronounce It Correctly?”

“If you can pronounce it correctly, yes.”

The boy stared, bewildered. “But… I just said it.”

“Exactly,” the cat said, and turned away, clearly done with the conversation.

The old woman looked at the boy with a softness that made his shoulders drop.
“Why don’t you come in? I’ll make you a cup of tea.”

He followed her inside, still reeling from his conversation with Mr Whiskers—or rather, with You Wouldn’t Pronounce It Correctly. His mind was trying to hold both truths at once.

“Cats are remarkable creatures,” the woman said as she lit the fire under the kettle. “They simply cannot help being quirky. He visits me often, you know.”

So that’s where he goes when he disappears for hours, the boy thought.

The kettle grumbled, “I don’t want to boil again, I’ve only just cooled down!”

“Oh hush,” the woman said gently. “We have a guest.”

“Can’t he have a glass of water?” it muttered, but began to warm reluctantly.

She set two cups of tea on the small wooden table. Her chair exhaled a long, put-upon sigh as she sat, but she paid it no mind. The boy couldn’t stop staring; she didn’t seem to notice anything unusual at all.

After a moment’s hesitation, he asked, “May I ask you something, ma’am? Mr Whiskers fell down the well, and then I fell up it after him. Could you tell me where I am? And… how come everything speaks?”

“You’re here,” she replied matter-of-factly.

“That’s what the well said,” the boy sighed. “I know I’m here, but what is this place?”

She burst out laughing. “Oh, that old grumpy well! But it wasn’t wrong. This place is indeed called HERE. And why does everything speak? Why wouldn’t it? Everything alive must express itself.”

The boy nodded, but his confusion lingered.
“In my world it’s not like that. Objects don’t speak. Only people do.”

“Are you sure of that?” she asked softly.

The well’s voice echoed in his mind: You humans arrive with too many conclusions.

He stared into his cup, the steam curling upward in shimmering colours.
He wasn’t as sure as before.
Maybe he had simply never listened.

The boy looked around at the wooden walls, the big old stove, and the herbs drying above it.

“I like your house,” he said, and felt as if the room grew cosier.

The woman smiled. “I like it too,” she replied, and the air warmed a little more. “Though I wouldn’t call it my house. We simply live together and take care of one another. I help it when it becomes cluttered or tired, and it offers me shelter. And yes, even though we sometimes bicker, we’re very fond of each other.”

The house hummed softly in agreement.

“Speaking of houses,” she continued, “it’s getting late. I wouldn’t want to keep you here too long. You likely have a home that’s fond of you as well.”

The boy stood and walked toward the door, then stopped, hesitating.

“I don’t know how to get back home,” he admitted. “What if the well won’t let me in?”

“Oh, don’t worry about the well,” she said as they stepped outside. The iridescent cat was still sitting on the doorstep. “It likes to complain, but it means well. You Wouldn’t will take you with him. She adores him.”

You Wouldn’t Pronounce It Correctly flicked an ear, acknowledging the compliment.

The boy thanked her for the tea and, before saying goodbye, asked,
“Can I come back here? Is the well the only way?”

“There are many ways of getting here,” she replied. “Humans arrive when a part of them is ready. I’m sure you’ll find your way back.”

You Wouldn’t Pronounce It Correctly led the boy toward the well. They didn’t speak much on the way; Mr Whiskers, it turned out, was not particularly chatty.

When they reached the well, the cat rubbed himself against the stone rim. The well shimmered brighter, then noticed the boy.

“Oh, not you again,” it muttered.

“Madam Well,” the boy said politely, “may I please go back home?”

“You humans,” the well sighed. “So full of sharp edges where there should be curves—”

“He’s with me,” the cat interrupted.

The well paused, inspecting the boy more closely.

“Curious,” she said at last. “You do seem a bit lighter this time. Very well. Just make it quick.”

Without hesitation, the cat leapt in. The boy hesitated only a moment, then followed, before the well could change her mind.

They fell down—and then up—and emerged once more into the familiar courtyard.

The boy, happy to be back home, turned and called an excited “thank you” toward the well. He half-expected another grumble, but this well stood grey and silent.

He turned to go inside and noticed Mr Whiskers walking calmly toward the side of the house. The boy could have sworn the tip of the cat’s tail shimmered with colour as it disappeared around the corner.

“I am here,” the boy whispered to himself.