It simply lay down at my doorstep
This happened in January, during the coldest frost wed had in years. Snow piled knee-deep, the air sharp as a blade, and the wind cut so deep it hurt just to breathe.
Our little village was tiny, nearly forgotten on the outskirts, and by then, almost deserted. Some had moved to the city to be with their children, others gone for good. Only those with nowhere left to go remainedand I was one of them.
After my husband passed and the children flew the nest, the house felt hollow, inside and out. The walls, once full of voices, fell silent. I stoked the fire, cooked simple mealssoup, porridge, eggs. I crumbled bread by the window for the birds. Time passed with booksold ones, well-worn, their pages marked by fingers long gone. The telly stayed offtoo much noise, not enough words.
In the quiet, I learned the sounds of the housethe sighing wind, the howl of snowstorms down the chimney, the groan of floorboards in the cold.
Then she appeared.
A scratching came from the porch. I thought it might be a magpie or the neighbours cat. But the sound was differentfaint, like something clinging to its last bit of strength. I opened the doorthe cold slapped my face like a fist. I looked downand froze.
Curled in the snowdrift was a small, black, filthy shadow. Not quite a catmore like a ghost. But her eyes bright yellow, piercing as an owls. They fixed on menot begging, but challenging. As if to say, *”I made it this far. Take me in or turn me away. But I cant go on.”*
One front leg was missingan old wound, rough with scar tissue, no blood, just tough skin where bone should be. Her fur was matted with burrs and dirt. Ribs jutted sharp beneath. God only knew what shed enduredor how far shed walked to reach my door.
I stood a moment, swallowed hard, then stepped out. She didnt moveno hissing, no flinching, just a slight shiver when I reached for her.
I carried her inside. She weighed less than a feather. *”She wont last the night,”* I thought. But I settled her by the hearth on an old blanket, set out water and a bit of chicken. She didnt touch itjust lay there, breathing slow, as if every breath took effort.
I sat beside her. Watched. And then I understoodshe was like me. Worn, wounded, but still here. Still holding on.
For a week, I tended her like a child. Ate beside her so she wouldnt feel alone. Spoke to herrambling about my day, grumbling about my aches, recalling my husband, whose name I still murmured in dreams. She listened. *Truly* listened. Sometimes she opened her eyes, as if whispering, *”Im here. Youre not alone.”*
After days, she sipped water. Then licked porridge from my fingers. Soon, she tried standingwobbled, collapsed. But she didnt quit. Next day, she tried again. And made it. Stood. Limped, unsteady, but walked.
I named her Miracle. Because nothing else fit.
From then on, she followed me everywherethe henhouse, the shed, the pantry. She slept at the foot of the bed, and if I stirred, shed murmur, as if asking, *”Still with me?”* And when I criedespecially at nightshed press close, nuzzle my cheek, hold my gaze.
She was my healing. My mirror. My reason.
Mrs. Wilkins from next door just shook her head.
*”Lucy, have you gone daft? Strays are ten a penny. Whats this one to you?”*
I shrugged. How could I explain that this broken black cat had saved me? That since she came, Id started *living* again, not just existing?
Come spring, she basked on the porch, chased butterflies. Learned to runon three legs. Stumbled at first, then mastered it. Even huntedonce brought me a mouse. Proud as anything. Showed me, then went to nap.
Once, she vanished all day. I near wore myself out searching, calling, combing the woods. At dusk, she reappearedscratched up but strutting. Maybe settling old scores. Slept three days straight after.
Five years she stayed. Not just survived*lived.* With her own ways, her moods. Loved buttered oats, hated the hoover, hid from stormsunder the quilt, or if I was near, tucked under my arm.
She aged fast. Her last year, she barely went outside. Slept more, ate less, moved careful-like. I knewthe end was coming. Every morning, Id check if she still breathed. And if she didI gave thanks.
One spring dawn, she didnt wake. Lay just as always by the hearth. Only her eyes stayed shut. I sat beside her, hand on her sidestill warm. But my heart knew.
The tears didnt come at first. I stroked her, whispered, *”Thank you, Miracle. You were everything. Without you, neither would I be.”*
Buried her under the old apple treewhere shed napped in summer shade. Laid her in a box, lined with soft flannel. Said goodbye. Properly.
Three years now. Another cat shares my homestripy, young, bold as brass. Nothing like her. But sometimes, at dusk, Ill catch a black shadow by the threshold. Or hear a familiar rustle.
Then I smile.
Because I knowshes still with me. Part of me. My Miracle.
If youve had a Miracle tootell your story below.
