One winters night, it simply lay down before my door
It happened in January, during the bitterest frost in years. The snow reached knee-high, the air was sharp as a blade, and the wind howled so fiercely that breathing felt like swallowing needles.
Our little village was tiny, tucked away on the fringes of the countryside, nearly emptied by then. Some had moved to the city to be with their children, others to their final resting places. Only those with nowhere else to go remained. I was one of them.
After my husband passed and the children flew the nest, the house felt hollownot just inside, but through and through. The walls, once alive with voices, fell silent. I fed the stove, cooked simple mealssoup, porridge, eggsand scattered breadcrumbs on the windowsill for the birds. Time was spent with books, old and well-thumbed, their corners marked by forgotten hands. The telly stayed off; noise, not words, lived there.
In the quiet, I began to hear thingsthe house sighing in the wind, the blizzard shrieking down the chimney, the floorboards groaning under the frost.
Then it appeared.
A scratching at the porch. I thought it might be a magpie or the neighbours cat. But this sound was differentfaint, desperate, like one last plea. I opened the door, and the cold struck like a slap. I looked downand froze.
Curled in the snowdrift was a small, black, mud-caked creature. Not quite a catmore like a shadow. But its eyes bright yellow, like a barn owls, staring straight at me. Not pleading. Defiant. As if to say, *Ive come this far. Take me or turn me away. But I cant go on.*
One of its front legs was gone, the wound long healed into rough, furless scar tissue. Its fur was matted with burrs and filth, ribs jutting sharp beneath. God only knew what it had endured, how far it had limped to reach my doorstep.
I stood there, swallowed hard, then stepped down. It didnt flinch. Didnt run, hiss, or curl into a ball. Just trembled slightly as I reached out, then went still again.
I lifted it. Light as a feather. *It wont last the night*, I thought. But I carried it inside, laid it by the hearth on an old blanket, set out a bowl of water and some chicken. It didnt touch them. Just lay there, breathing ragged, each gasp a struggle.
I sat beside it. Watched. And then I understoodit was like me. Worn, wounded, but still here. Still holding on.
For a week, I nursed it like a newborn. Ate beside it so it wouldnt feel alone. Talked to itrambled about my day, complained about my aches, reminisced about my husband, whose name I still called in my dreams. It listened. Truly listened. Sometimes, it opened its eyes, as if whispering, *Im here. Youre not alone.*
After days, it drank. Then licked porridge from my finger. Then tried to stand. It wobbled, collapsedbut tried again. And again. Until it walked. Limping, unsteady, but moving.
I named it Wonder. Because what else could you call it?
From then on, it followed me everywherethe chicken coop, the shed, the pantry. It slept at the foot of my bed, and if I stirred, it let out a soft *mrrp*, as if asking, *Still with me?* And when I criedespecially at nightit pressed close, nudged my cheek, looked into my eyes.
It was my healing. My mirror. My meaning.
The neighbour, Mrs. Whitmore, just shook her head.
*”Lucy, have you gone mad? The streets are crawling with strays. Whats so special about this one?”*
How could I explain? That this broken black cat had saved me? That since it arrived, Id begun to *live*, not just exist?
Come spring, it basked on the porch, chased butterflies. Learned to run on three legsclumsy at first, then swift. Even hunted, once bringing me a mouse, proud as a lion.
Once, it vanished for a day. I searched, called, scoured the woods. At dusk, it returnedscratched, battered, but strutting. Maybe it had settled old scores. Then it slept for three days straight.
It lived with me for five years. Not just survived*lived*. With quirks, moods, habits. Loved buttered oats, hated the hoover, hid from storms under the quiltor my arm.
It aged fast. That last year, it hardly went outside. Slept more, ate less, moved carefully. I knew the end was near. Every morning, I checked if it still breathed. And when it didI gave thanks.
One spring dawn, it simply didnt wake. Lay there, peaceful, by the hearth. Eyes closed. I sat beside it, touched its sidestill warm. But my heart knew.
The tears didnt come at first. I stroked it, whispered, *”Thank you, Wonder. You were everything. Without you, I wouldnt be here.”*
I buried it under the old apple tree, where it napped in summer shade. Wrapped in flannel, laid in a box. Said goodbye in silence. Truthfully.
Three years have passed. Now another cat lives with mestriped, young, bold. Nothing like it. But sometimes, especially at dusk, I catch a black shadow by the door. Or hear a familiar rustle.
Then I smile.
Because I knowits still with me. Part of me. My Wonder.
If youve known a Wonder tooshare your story in the comments.
