It simply collapsed in front of my door
It happened in January, during the coldest freeze the region had seen in years. Snow reached my knees, the air cut like a blade, and the wind blew so hard it hurt to inhale.
Our little village was tiny, almost lost on the edge of the map, and by then it was nearly deserted. Some families had moved to the city to be with their children, others returned to their ancestral homes. Only those who had nowhere else left remained. I was one of them.
After my husband died and the children flew away, the house felt emptied from the outside and, as if from the inside, too. The walls that once rang with voices fell silent. I kept the stove lit, prepared modest meals for myselfsoup, porridge, eggs. I scattered bread crumbs on the windowsill for the birds. My days were spent with booksold, wellworn, with pages marked long ago. I hardly ever turned on the television; the noise there was just static, not words.
In the hush I began to hear the house sigh in the wind, the snowstorm roaring over the chimney, the boards creaking in the frost.
Then he appeared.
I heard a scratching at the porch. I thought perhaps a jay was playing, or the neighbors cat. The sound, however, was differentfaint, as if someone was clawing with their last ounce of strength. I opened the door; the cold struck my face like a slap. I looked down and froze.
A small, black, filthy creature was huddled in a snowdrift. Not a catmore a shadow. Its eyes glowed a vivid yellow, like an owls, staring straight at me. Not pleading, but challenging, as if saying: Ive come this far. Either you take me in or send me away. I cant go any further.
One front leg was missing, leaving a raw wound scarred with rough edges, no blood, a crust where it had been. Its fur hung in clumps, tangled with debris and dirt. Bones protruded. Only God knows what it endured to reach my doorstep.
I stood there for a moment, swallowed, then descended the steps. It made no move. It didnt bolt, didnt curl up. It only shivered slightly when I reached out, then fell still again.
I lifted it and carried it inside. It was lighter than a feather. I thought, It wont survive the night. I laid it on a rug beside the stove, placed an old bedding underneath, set a bowl of water and a piece of chicken nearby. It didnt touch anything, just lay there, breathing laboriously, each inhalation seeming a great effort.
I sat beside it, watching. Suddenly I realized it was like metired, wounded, yet still alive, still holding on.
All week I tended to it as one would a newborn. I fed it beside me so it wouldnt feel alone. I talked to it, told it about my day, complained about my health, recalled my husband, whom I still call in my dreams. It listenedtruly listened. Occasionally it opened its eyes, as if whispering, Im here. Youre not alone.
A few days later it drank a little water, then licked porridge from my finger. Soon after it tried to stand. It rose, wobbled, fell back, but didnt give up. The next day it tried again and succeeded. It stood, limping, uncertain, but moving.
I named it Miracle, because nothing else seemed fitting.
From that day onward it followed me everywhere: the chicken coop, the porch, the pantry. It slept at the foot of the bed, and when I turned, it would meow softly, as if asking, Are you still here with me? And when I wept, especially at night, it would come, curl up beside me, and look into my eyes.
It became my healing, a mirror, a sense of purpose.
Our neighbor, Aunt Galja, just shook her head:
Ljuba, have you gone completely mad? There are as many of them on the street as stars in the sky. Why do you need this?
I could only shrug. How could I explain that this black, crippled cat saved me? That since its arrival I have begun truly living again, not merely existing?
In spring it warmed on the balcony, chased butterflies, and learned to run on three legs. At first it stumbled, then quickly got the hang of it. It even started huntingonce bringing back a mouse proudly before retreating to sleep.
One day it vanished for an entire day. I panicked, searched the neighborhood, called out, walked through the woods. By evening it returned, its face scratched, but walking triumphantly. Perhaps it had visited its past or settled a score. Then it slept for three days, barely stirring.
It stayed with me for five years. Not only did it survive; it lived, with its quirks, preferences, and nature. It loved buttered millet, hated the vacuum cleaner, hid from storms under a blanketor under my lap when I was there.
It aged quickly. In its final year it barely left the yard, slept more, ate less, moved more cautiously. I felt its end drawing near. Each morning I first checked if it was still breathing, and if so, I gave thanks.
One spring morning it simply didnt wake. It lay as always on the stoveside bed, eyes unopened. I sat beside it, placed my warm palm on its head. My heart knew.
Tears didnt come immediately. I stroked it for a long time, whispering, Thank you, Miracle. You were everything. Without you I wouldnt be here.
I buried it beneath the old apple tree where it liked to lie in summer shade, placing it in a box lined with soft flannel, saying a quiet, sincere goodbye.
Three years have passed. Now another cat lives with mea young, striped, daring one, nothing like Miracle. Yet sometimes, especially at night, I sense a black silhouette at the doorway or hear a familiar rustle.
I smile then.
Because I know hes still here, a part of me, my Miracle.
If you, too, have had someone like my Miracle, share your story in the comments.
