Level two of the multi-storey car park is where the fluorescent tubes buzz louder than traffic and the air mixes exhaust with rain that never fully dries. Two cats — one ginger, one grey with white boots — have claimed the stairwell landing between B and C sections. They lie on the warm concrete step where sun slices through the grille in the afternoon, unbothered by humans who shortcut through on the way to NTUC.
I first noticed them during a week when I parked on the open deck and walked down instead of waiting for the lift. Ginger watched without blinking; Grey Boots cleaned a paw with the dignity of a matron. Neither begged. Residents leave kibble sometimes on a flattened cardboard tray near the drain — not official feeding, not forbidden either, the kind of compromise HDB life invents. The cleaner sweeps around them.
Cats understand territory in metres, not deeds. Their metres include the stairwell corner, the ledge above the fire hose cabinet, and the shadow line when the sun moves. Dogs passing on leashes earn a flat stare; pigeons earn nothing. At night they vanish into the geometry of pillars and parked cars, reappearing at dawn as if the car park births them fresh.
I sit on the lower step sometimes, not too close, and eat a bun from the bakery. Ginger tolerates me; Grey Boots leaves. The hum of the lights becomes a kind of silence if you stay long enough. From here you can hear lifts ding in distant blocks, a sound like coins dropped into a bowl, random and regular at once.
Photographing the cats required patience and not using flash. The ginger one looked directly at the lens once, then yawned, which felt like approval. I do not name them officially; names create responsibility and the estate already has enough of that. They are two cats who own a stairwell corner, keeping watch over nothing important and everything local. If you walk past, do not chase. Say soft hello if you must. They were here before your errand and will remain after.