When Joy Came
It was a late evening in March, the air thick with fog, and Michael was walking home from work as usual. The factory shift had ended, and he took his regular route—past the empty courtyard, beneath the dim glow of the lone streetlamp by the entrance. The silence was heavy, as if the entire neighbourhood had been abandoned—no voices, no footsteps, no passing cars. Only the wind rustling through the dry branches of the old bush by the wall.
He had just pulled his keys from his pocket when he caught a familiar, sharp scent—sweet, cheap, the kind that tugged at old memories. Cat food. Images flooded back: his grandmother’s shed in the countryside, three half-wild cats, and bowls filled with grey mush. He turned sharply.
There, on the concrete step, she sat.
Thin, tri-coloured, with a torn ear and enormous, almost human eyes. She stared right at him—calmly, neither pleading nor afraid. There was something painfully deliberate in her gaze, as if she knew exactly who he was. As if she knew why she’d come.
Michael froze. For a few seconds, he just looked. Then he turned and unlocked the door. The cat didn’t move. Only her tail gave a faint flick—uncertain, lazy, as if she was giving herself time to think.
He glanced back.
“Well… if you want, come in.”
She stepped inside. No hesitation. No second glance. Confident, as if this was exactly where she’d meant to arrive.
Michael had never kept pets. Not because he disliked them—he just didn’t think himself capable of care. Care wasn’t just meals and bowls. It was responsibility, involvement, warmth. And he was certain none of that remained in him. He lived alone, thirty-five years old. Fifteen of those spent at the same steel plant. Since the divorce from Emily, his conversations had dwindled to a few words a day—at the shop, at the office. The rest was silence, the hum of the radio, the dull glow of a lamp, and a tray of reheated meals.
He was fading. Quietly. Without tragedy. Just disappearing, bit by bit.
The cat changed everything.
At first, she simply existed. Then she began waking him—standing softly on his chest, staring into his eyes. Silent. So insistently that he couldn’t ignore it. He’d go to the kitchen, pour her water, fill her bowl. Over time, the food got better. Then came a non-slip bowl. Then a mat.
And then, he started talking to her.
Not just “here, kitty,” but properly. With tone, with questions, with pauses. She listened. Sat beside him, twitched her ears, blinked at the right moments. And he swore she understood. In her silence, there was no indifference. Only attention.
He began coming home earlier. For the first time in years, he cooked—soup, pasta, fried eggs. Played music. Sometimes read aloud. She loved that. Curled on the windowsill, tail wrapped around her paws. He realised the silence no longer pressed down. The flat wasn’t just a concrete box—it was a home again.
Then one day, the thought struck him:
“I’m living. Not just existing. Living.”
And it all started with her.
Half a year passed. Spring. The wind carried dust and freshness through the streets. And then—she vanished. Slipped out for her usual evening stroll… and never returned.
At first, he wasn’t worried—cats wandered. Then came unease. Then, despair. He combed the neighbourhood. Peered under cars, knocked on doors, walked through every garden. Put up posters, called shelters. Even asked neighbours he hadn’t spoken to in years.
Nothing.
The silence returned. But different now. Frightening. He started coming home late again. Skipped meals. Left the radio off. Just sat at the kitchen table with a mug, staring into the black window where only his reflection stared back. Everything had reset. The emptiness. The quiet. Only now, he knew what could have been. And that made it twice as hard.
Over two weeks passed.
One evening, walking home, he heard:
“Mister! Is this yours?”
He turned. A girl about ten, in a red coat, held something dirty, scruffy, but… familiar. He wasn’t wrong. It was her. The cat.
“She showed up a week ago,” the girl said. “I fed her. Then today—she started following you. I just kept up.”
Michael held his breath. Then carefully reached out. The cat didn’t struggle. Just pressed her head under his chin and purred softly. He shut his eyes so he wouldn’t cry right there on the street.
“Thank you,” he managed. “What’s your name?”
“Lily,” the girl answered. “What’s hers?”
It hit him then—the cat had no name. He’d never given her one. She was just there. Present.
He looked at Lily, then at the cat. And smiled.
“Joy.”
“Pretty name,” Lily said. “Fits her.”
Now, he often saw Lily in the courtyard. They’d sit on the bench sometimes, talking about school, films, swapping stories about the cat who once stole a sausage right off a plate. Sometimes they just waved—something simple, warm.
And the cat slept on the windowsill. Or bounced across pillows. Or curled in his lap while he read aloud again. Sometimes he told her things he told no one else. About life. About loneliness. About Emily. About fear. She listened. Quietly. Without advice.
And when, now and then, she nudged his forehead gently, he knew: she was here. She was Joy.
And he was living again. Not afraid. Not hiding. Noticing sunrises, tasting bread, smelling the wet wood of April. He was back—with the world. With himself. With her.
With Joy.
