Marmalade

Marmalade, the rumored mayoral candidate of Hollowford, is a cat who knows how to own a room—or rather, a town square. He’s a large, sunlit-orange tabby with a coat that gleams like warm honey when it catches the light. His stripes are bold, tiger-like, giving him the air of quiet authority, while the snowy tuft on his chest softens him into something approachable and almost statesmanlike. His eyes are an amber-gold, sharp and knowing, the kind of gaze that makes people whisper, “He knows something we don’t.” Marmalade’s walk is unhurried but purposeful. He never darts or scrambles like other cats—he arrives. Whether stepping onto a market stall or sauntering across town hall steps, he carries himself with the practiced composure of someone well aware that people will make way. Children try to pet him, old men nod respectfully as he passes, and tourists snap photos in awe. His personality is half-charmer, half-mystic. He’ll curl up in shop windows like he’s claiming new territory, or leap onto benches mid-conversation, staring down townsfolk as though moderating debates. Rumor has it he once stopped a shouting match between two council members just by sitting between them and flicking his tail. As for his “policies,” they’re speculative, of course. Some townsfolk swear he’s campaigning for more sunbeams in public spaces. Others claim he’s advocating free fish Fridays at the market. Still others insist his platform is about fairness—equal lap access for all. Whether or not Marmalade is truly running for mayor, the truth is this: the town already treats him like one. Posters with his face appear mysteriously on lampposts. Merch with his whiskered likeness circulates at the café. And Saffron, his ever-dedicated manager, ensures that his image online is just as flawless as it is in person.