So she did what any rational person would do.

She brought treats.

On a Wednesday afternoon, with a bag of tuna-flavored snacks in one pocket and a camera in the
other, she stepped into the elevator. As if on cue, it dinged and opened onto Floor Thirteen. The
cat sat by the vase of sunflowers, grooming its paw.

“Okay, buddy,” Nora said. “What’s the deal?”

The cat meowed.

She stepped into the hallway.

The air was… different. Warmer. Smelled faintly of cinnamon and old books. She crouched
down and offered a treat.

The cat sniffed, then took it delicately.

“Good cat,” she said.

Then it spoke.

“I prefer the term familiar,” the cat said, its voice smooth as velvet.

Nora screamed, dropped the bag of treats, and stumbled back into the elevator.

The doors stayed open.

“Apologies,” the cat said. “Didn’t mean to startle you. I assumed you’d figured it out by now.”

“Figured what out?” Nora asked, her heart pounding.

“That this is Floor Thirteen. The magical floor. Every old building has one. This one just
happens to be unclaimed.”

“Unclaimed?”

“Yes,” said the cat, licking its paw. “Most of these floors are used by witches, wizards, hedge
magicians, you name it. But this one’s been vacant since 1956. Bit of a paperwork mix-up.”

Nora’s mind was doing cartwheels. “You’re telling me… this floor is magical?”

“And you’re the first person who’s been able to see it in decades,” the cat said, tail swishing.
“Which suggests you might be magical too. Or very stubborn. The two often overlap.”
Nora stared. “I work in a bakery. The closest I get to magic is sourdough.”

The cat snorted. “That’s where you’re wrong. Ever made a batch of croissants rise perfectly
without checking the temperature once?”

“…Yes,” she admitted.

The cat’s whiskers twitched. “Magic.”

Over the next hour, Nora learned that Floor Thirteen existed in a sort of bureaucratic limbo
between dimensions. It adapted itself to the energy of the person who discovered it. In her case,
it had become something familiar—cozy, inviting, and slightly weird. Like an old bookstore and
a bakery had a baby.

The cat, whose name was Alastair (formerly Alastair the Magnificent, now semi-retired), had
been living there in peace until the building nearly condemned the floor entirely. Her arrival,
apparently, had reawakened it.

“So now what?” Nora asked. “Do I, like, become a witch?”

“Technically, you already are,” Alastair said, now lounging in a velvet armchair that hadn’t been
there ten seconds ago. “But yes. With training.”

“I don’t even know where to begin.”

“Fortunately, I do. Step one: never trust a talking mirror. Step two: always keep cinnamon sticks
in your coat. And step three…” he leapt onto her shoulder, light as a feather. “…learn to listen.”

“Listen to what?”

“To the magic. It’s in the creaks of the floorboards. In the flour you measure by feel. In the way
the elevator sighs when it’s tired.”

And somehow, Nora did. Over the weeks that followed, she returned to Floor Thirteen almost
every day. She learned how to read a grimoire, brew tea that cured heartbreak, and charm a
sourdough starter so it would never die (and sometimes sang show tunes at night).

Her baking improved too—muffins that calmed anxiety, cupcakes that could inspire courage.
The locals didn’t know why, but Bramblewood Bakery became wildly popular. People said they
felt lighter when they left. Happier.

They never knew about Floor Thirteen.

Or the cat in a red bow tie who kept watch over it.
But every so often, the elevator would ding unexpectedly, and a nervous new tenant might find
themselves staring at a hallway that didn’t belong, with the faint smell of cinnamon and
something older, deeper.

And if they had the courage to step forward, well…

That’s how the magic chooses.