One of my favourite neighbourhood characters here on Pochchokulkhodji Street is The Cat With No Name. A free spirit with a winning personality and a musical meow, The Cat can usually be found after lunch soaking up the sun on the little bench in the Guest House upstairs atrium. We exchange greetings. I sit down. The Cat settles on my lap and begins to purr. We both shut our eyes and the sounds of the daily life in the Old City drift over us: birdsong, quiet conversation between a mother and her daughter-in-law, Tajik music, a baby crying, a bee buzzing, drums and horns from a wedding parade a few blocks away, children playing, a saw cutting metal, footsteps approaching and fading away. In this small moment, we are all alive together: me and The Cat and you.