The cat slept with his forelegs tucked under his body, his face buried in his tail. he purred loudly at first, then more quietly, until he entered a state of complete and silent sleep, all defences down. I sat in a sunny spot on the veranda, stroking him gently so as not to wake him. I had not thought about the cat's special soft, warm touch for a very long time. So much had been happening to me that I had all but forgotten that the cat had disappeared. Holding this soft, small living creature in my lap this way, though, and seeing how it slept with complete trust in me, I felt a warm rush in my chest.

haruki murakami, the wind-up bird chronicle (vintage, 2003)