The rain hammered the streets of East London, the wind screaming through the alleys as Stephen Irving stared blankly at the kitchen wall. For two years his life had run like clockwork: up at seven, tea at eight, the news at nine. Shoes neatly aligned by the door, mugs stacked in the cupboard with their handles all facing the same way. That order was the only thing left after his wife, Margaret, had passed.
Stunning, just perfect, he muttered to himself. Emily would have loved this.
That evening, as he made his usual walk to the corner shop for a loaf, a shivering orange cat curled up on the steps of his block. The fur was ragged, one eye clouded, the whole creature trembling as if from cold or fear.
Hey there, mate, Stephen said, sinking onto the stone step. You dont look too well.
The cat stared back, a silent accusation in its gaze, as though to say, Dont patronise me, old man.
Come here, Stephen reached out.
The animal didnt bolt. It lifted its head, allowed his hand to brush its back, and let out a barely audible purr.
You little frostbite, Stephen chuckled, shaking his head.
Just then, footsteps clattered up the stairwell. Eleanor Graham, the nosy neighbour from three flats up, descended with a bag of rubbish.
Stephen Irving! she shouted, eyes widening at the sight. What are you doing with that creature?
Its freezing out there, he replied.
And rightfully so! You cant have it roaming the hallway. Fleas, disease
He glanced at Eleanor, then at the cat.
Lets get it inside where its warm, he whispered.
Youre mad! Eleanor snapped, clutching her purse. Dont bring that filthy thing inside!
What if it dies here? Wouldnt that be cleaner? Stephen retorted, his voice low.
He carried the cat back to his flat. The animal followed hesitantly, pausing at the doorway, sniffing the air.
Dont be scared, come in, Stephen coaxed. This isnt the street.
First, he led Ginger into the bathroom. Warm water and a splash of pet shampoo made the cat close its eyes in bliss.
Poor thing, Stephen murmured, tracing the scars on its flank. Who did this to you?
He fed Ginger bits of sausage and cheese; the morsels vanished in seconds.
Youll be called Ginger, Stephen declared, smiling. Fits you perfectly.
He draped an old towel over the radiator; Ginger curled into a ball and fell asleep instantly. Stephen watched, feeling a twist of anxiety. What now? I need food, a vet
But something alive had entered his empty home.
Just one night, thats all, he told himself. Well see what tomorrow brings.
Morning broke with a crash. The kitchen was a disastercooking pots overturned, flour dusting the floor, a mug shattered. Ginger sat in the centre, licking his paw with regal indifference.
What have you done? Stephen shouted, heart pounding.
The cat lifted its head, eyes blank, as if to say, Good morning. Howd you sleep?
Enough, Stephen sighed, defeated. Ill take you back. Im not ready for this.
He stood amid the wreckage, feeling the fragile order of his twoyear sanctuary shatter in seconds. I cant handle this, he whispered to the cat. Im sorry.
He lifted Ginger and headed for the hallway, only to run straight into Eleanor, who was already gathering her compost.
Exactly what I feared! she proclaimed, pointing at the mess. I told you it would end badly!
Stephen met her stare, then Gingers soft purr against his chest.
I wont give him back, he said suddenly, tone fierce.
What? You cant
Hell stay. Ill teach him. Stephens voice shook with a mix of defiance and desperation.
Fine, keep your beast, Eleanor huffed, slamming the door.
Stephen closed it, the silence that followed heavy with the cats gentle rumble.
Alright, Ginger, he said, breathing out. Since youre here, well make this work. No more trouble, agree?
For the next half hour he scrubbed the kitchen while Ginger watched, his tail flicking lazily.
See how it is? Stephen muttered, sweeping. Im old, youre youre my audience now.
Ginger let out a soft meow, as if approving.
By lunchtime the flat gleamed again. As Stephen sat down, Ginger leapt onto the top shelf and knocked a stack of books to the floor.
Youre impossible! Stephen yelled, half exasperated, half amused.
Later that evening, Stephen stopped by the corner shop for cat food. The shopkeeper, a young woman with a quick smile, raised an eyebrow.
Got a cat now? she asked.
Looks that way, Stephen replied, chuckling.
Back home he poured the fresh kibble into Gingers bowl. The cat ate eagerly, then brushed against Stephens leg.
Like it? Stephen asked.
Ginger purred and nudged his hand.
A week passed and Stephens routine dissolved. He no longer rose at a set hour; instead, he was roused by Gingers frantic sprints across the hallway. Evenings were spent tossing a string of yarn rather than watching the news.
Emily would have laughed at this, he mused aloud, thinking of his late wife. What happened to the neatfellow husband she married?
Now the flat was filled with a cat tree by the window, scratching posts, extra bowls, and a lingering warmth that had never existed before. The sterile silence was gone; life buzzed through every corner.
Eleanor still dropped by at her usual times, her questions peppered with curiosity, always ending with a lingering stare at Ginger.
Youve turned this place into a zoo! she huffed one day. Youll end up with cockroaches.
Cockroaches? Stephen laughed. Its cleaner than most homes, I assure you.
Shed sigh, shake her head, and leave, but the flat now smelled of fresh cat litter and cooked meals rather than antiseptic emptiness.
Three weeks later, Stephen was painting the radiator from a wobbly stool when Ginger, darting under his arm, splashed a paw in the fresh paint and ran, leaving bright orange streaks across the walls.
Little artist, Stephen chuckled, scooping the cat up.
A knock sounded at the door.
Whats happening now? Eleanor demanded, storming in.
Its just Gingers avantgarde, Stephen replied, gesturing to the colorful chaos.
Outrageous! she shouted, but Stephen only grinned. Its beautiful, isnt it?
By the fourth week, Stephen bought a new toy for Ginger. The shop assistant sighed, shaking her head.
Youre spoiling that cat, she said.
Hes worth it, Stephen admitted, a faint blush coloring his cheeks.
Ginger greeted him at the door, purring softly.
Missed you, Stephen whispered. I missed you too.
The orange kitten had pulled Stephen back from the brink of solitary monotony.
A month later, Eleanor returned, this time with a camera.
May I take a picture? My granddaughter will love it, she asked.
By all means, Stephen replied, watching as Ginger struck a pose like a seasoned model. Eleanors laugh, rare and genuine, filled the hallway.
After she left, Stephen reflected, Even Eleanors softened. Maybe shes changed, or perhaps Im seeing it differently.
The next morning, silence crept back into the flat, a cold, familiar quiet.
Ginger? Stephen called, standing shakily.
No answer. No soft patter of paws.
Where are you, my friend?
He searched under the sofa, inside the wardrobe, behind the fridgenothing. A bowl of untouched food sat on the kitchen counter, a solitary reminder of the missing cat.
This cant be happening, he whispered, voice trembling.
He checked the balcony, remembering hed left the small window ajar the night before. The glass pane was open, and shards of a broken flowerpot lay on the floor.
Good Lord Stephen muttered. He could have fallen.
The balcony was four stories up; below was only cold concrete.
He rushed outside, sprinting through the courtyard, peering under bins, into the nearby park, asking anyone he met.
Sir, whats wrong? a young mother pushing a pram inquired gently.
My cats missing, Stephen managed, eyes brimming.
Maybe hes just out for a stroll, she suggested kindly.
He combed the whole estate, calling, Ginger! Come back! Passersby turned, their faces soft with pity.
By evening, exhausted, he slumped back into his kitchen chair, staring at the untouched food bowl. The door knocked.
Eleanor stood there, eyes wide.
Stephen, I heard you shouting, she said. Whats happened?
My cats gone, he croaked. He could have fallen from the balcony, or run off. I dont know.
She looked around, baffled. Did anyone see him?
Everyone. Weve checked everywhere.
Maybe someone took him in? she offered, hoping.
The thought struck Stephen harder than any loss.
I dont know, Eleanor, he confessed, finally using her first name. My head feels hollow.
She placed a tentative hand on his shoulder. Dont give up. Hell find his way back. Cats are clever.
That night, sleep eluded him. He lay awake listening for any familiar meow, but only the wind outside answered.
By dawn, Stephen realized he could not live without Ginger. He had become part of the cats world.
The second day of the search, he printed a flyer with Gingers picture: Lost orange cat, white chest. Reward offered. He handed it to the owner of the local pet shop, who smiled.
Ill post it for you, she said. Lets get the word out.
The flyer went online, on community boards, on lampposts. Yet the phone rang with nothing.
On the third day, Stephen sat by the window, eyes blank, the world outside a blur. He thought of the strict rhythm he once lived, now shattered by a single creatures chaos, warmth, and laughterthen vanished, leaving a deeper void than before.
He muttered to his reflection, Maybe this is how it ends for old menquiet and alone. But his heart resisted.
Just as he was about to give up, a faint sound reached his earsa distant, mournful meow.
He leapt up, heart hammering. Ginger? he called, voice rough.
Silence answered. He raced up the stairs, breathless.
Ginger! Youre here?
In the narrow gap between the secondfloor windows, a trembling, filthy Ginger clung to the ledge, eyes wide with terror.
Lord have mercy, Stephen gasped. How did you get up there?
He gingerly eased the window open, cradling the shivering cat. Ginger barely moved, but when Stephen pressed him close, a soft purr escaped.
Tears streamed down Stephens cheeks, the first hed shed in two years.
You little fool, he whispered. Why did you leave?
He wrapped Ginger in a blanket, carried him inside, and fed him warm milk. By evening, the cats vigor returned; he chased a string and rolled onto his back, eyes halfclosed in content.
Thats more like it, Stephen smiled through his tears. Welcome home.
Months later, Januarys frost glazed the streets, but Stephens flat radiated warmth. Ginger lounged on the windowsill, belly exposed to the suns spot, plump and serene.
Youve become quite the housecat, Stephen joked, patting the fur.
Ginger merely purred, eyes halfclosed.
A soft knock came at the door. Eleanor peered in, a small knitted mouse in hand.
May I? she asked.
Come in, Eleanor, Stephen replied, opening the door.
She settled with a cup of tea, placing the toy beside Ginger. Hows our king? she cooed, stroking the cat.
Living like royalty, Stephen said. Eating, sleeping, causing a bit of chaos now and then.
Do you regret taking him in? Eleanor asked, eyes twinkling.
Never, Stephen answered honestly. My flat is a mess of toys, bowls, stray hairbut its alive.
Eleanor smiled. Perhaps I should get a cat myself. Its been dull lately.
Just make sure you vaccinate them, Stephen winked.
Later, Stephen and Ginger rested on the couch. The TV droned in the background as Ginger dozed on his lap, a soft rise and fall of his chest.
Remember when I wanted to throw you out? Stephen mused, scratching the cats belly. Stupid me. I almost missed the best thing that happened to me.
Outside, the January wind howled, yet inside the flat glowed with comfort. Stephen watched Ginger breathe, realizing he was no longer merely existinghe was living.
The next morning, the orange marmaladeeyed alarm would wake him, and he would answer with a smile, because the house was full of life.
Sleep tight, ginger, Stephen whispered as the cat settled deeper into the cushion.
And the soft purr was the sweetest lullaby any man could hear.
