Vincent stubbed out his fourth cigarette, barely tasting the smoke. He sat on the rusted bench outside the block of flats, rolling the butt between his fingers, staring up at the fourth-floor window where Lydia lived.
“What am I even doing here?” he muttered, flicking the stub towards the overflowing bin. Missed, as usual. With a sigh, he stood, gathered the spent cigarettes, and crammed them deep into the rubbish. He nearly lit another—then stopped. Best save it.
His gaze drifted to the cats. Four of them, sitting rigid, noses pointed at Lydia’s window. “She’d have taken them all in by now,” Vincent thought bitterly. He knew her too well. How many strays had she nursed back to life? Fed, warmed, coaxed trust back into their wary eyes? Lydia loved animals more than people—maybe because they never disappointed her. Not like he had.
Thirty years. That’s how long it had been since he walked out. When the doctors said she’d never have children, he left. Dreams of football matches with a son, teaching him to ride a bike—all of it had seemed more important than love. Or so he’d told himself. Now he knew the truth: he’d been a coward.
The text from Lydia flickered in his mind: *”I’m sorry. For everything. I’d like to see you one last time.”* No mention of illness. Just that.
A young woman approached, barely twenty. “Excuse me, do you have the time? My phone’s dead.”
“Ten to five,” Vincent said.
“You wouldn’t happen to be Edward? I was supposed to meet someone here—”
“No. Vincent.”
She hesitated. “Are you waiting for someone too?”
He smiled faintly. She lingered, then left, glancing back.
Vincent stood. *If I’ve come this far…* He trudged up the stairs, pressed the buzzer.
A girl answered—young, sharp-eyed. “You must be Vincent. Come in. Lydia said you might visit.”
“And you are?”
“Emily. I live next door. I help her out.” She grabbed her coat. “Call if she needs anything.”
Then he was alone in the doorway. This flat had been their first home. And their last. Had it ever really been a home, or just a beginning he’d ruined?
“Vincent, are you going to stand there all night?” Lydia’s voice, weak but amused, floated from the bedroom.
He toed off his shoes, smoothed his hair, stepped inside.
“Hello, Lydia.” His voice wavered.
“Knew it was you. No one else would come.”
“No one at all?”
“Just you.” She gestured to the chair by the window. “Sit. Let me look at you.”
She tried to sit up—winced.
“Need help?”
“Fine. Actually—yes.”
He moved closer, the sterile tang of medicine thick in the air, and steadied her.
“Thanks,” she whispered. “Better.”
“You’re really ill?”
“Not ill, Vincent. Dying.” She said it plainly, like discussing the rain.
His throat tightened. “But your message—you never said—”
“Didn’t want pity. Just… wanted to see you. To say—I never stopped thinking of you. Not once, in thirty years.”
Her words came fast, desperate. His chest ached.
“I wanted to apologise… for never giving you children. I know you dreamed—but if I could live it again? I’d choose you. Every time.”
Vincent swallowed hard. “I’m the one who should beg forgiveness.”
“You did what you thought was right. But me? I never loved anyone else. Not like you.”
He snatched up the medical papers. Scanned them—diagnosis, metastases, failed treatment—his hands shook.
“There are options—surgeries—”
“Slender chances. And honestly? Without you, I don’t care to try.”
Then it struck him: she’d loved him all this time. And he—he’d never stopped either. Which meant he couldn’t walk away. Not again.
He left the flat. The cats still waited below, watching him expectantly. Without a word, he scooped all four into his arms and marched back inside.
Lydia blinked. “What are you—?”
“We’re fixing you,” he said. “It’s too soon for goodbyes.”
The cats clambered onto the bed, purring. Vincent leaned down—kissed her, deeply, for the first time in decades.
And she wept. From joy.
The road was brutal. Weeks in hospital, gruelling treatments. But the doctors said, “Will to live matters most. And support.”
Now, Lydia had both.
She fought. Survived. Lived years more—with Vincent, with the cats, with love that had never truly died.
It sounds like a fairy tale. But it happened.
Because genuine love—and a few persistent felines—can work miracles.
