Luna was a small grey cat with big green eyes. She loved to travel.
Last month, she went to Paris.
She saw the Eiffel Tower. She walked along the river. She even tried a croissant. It was delicious.
But now, Luna was thinking about food again. Not croissants. Something else.
Pizza. Pasta. Italy.
“I’m going to Milan,” she said to herself one morning. She packed her little bag — her favourite scarf, her travel notebook, and her green umbrella, just in case.
The train from Paris to Milan took about seven hours. Luna sat by the window and watched the mountains go by.
The Alps were big and white. She pressed her nose against the glass.
“Beautiful,” she whispered.
When the train arrived in Milan, the station was busy and loud. People were walking fast. Bags were moving everywhere.
But Luna was not worried. She had done this before.
She stepped outside.
The air smelled different here. Warmer. A little like coffee and fresh bread.
She smiled. She was ready.
Luna’s uncle was waiting for her near the exit. His name was Marco.
He was an older cat, with grey and white fur and a very neat moustache. He had lived in Milan for more than ten years.
“Luna!” he called, waving his paw.
“Uncle Marco!” She ran over and gave him a big hug.
“You look tired from the journey,” he said. “Come. First, we eat.”
Luna did not argue with that.
Uncle Marco took her to a small restaurant near the city centre. It was not a fancy place. The walls were yellow.
The tables were small. But it smelled incredible.
“This is the best pasta in Milan,” Marco said.
“Maybe the best in Italy.”
“You say that about every restaurant,” Luna said, laughing.
“And I am always right,” he replied.
Luna ordered tagliatelle with tomato sauce. Marco ordered a pizza with mozzarella and basil.
When the food arrived, Luna took one bite and closed her eyes.
It was warm. It was rich. It was perfect.
“Okay,” she said quietly. “You were right.”
Marco smiled and said nothing. He already knew.
After dinner, they walked through the streets of Milan. The city was beautiful at night. The old buildings were lit up with soft yellow light.
People were sitting outside cafés, talking and laughing.
Luna took out her notebook and wrote one sentence:
Paris was beautiful. But Milan tastes better.
She closed the notebook and looked up at the sky.
She did not know which city she loved more. Maybe she did not need to choose.
She was just happy to be here — with her uncle, in a new city, with a full stomach and a quiet heart.
And that, she thought, was enough.
Goodnight, Luna.