Henry scrupulously surveyed his desk. It typically hosted what some might call an artistic mess. But today, he planned to leave work early to celebrate his birthday, a minor milestone.
Henry had also requested an extra week of vacation to spend time with his family at the lakes, so he decided to tidy up his workspace. “There, that’s better,” he thought. His eyes drifted to a photo in the corner of the desk, and a quiet melancholy washed over him. It wasn’t sadness exactly, but nostalgia for something precious that would never return. Enlarged versions of this photo hung in his childhood home and in his own flat’s living room. He remembered that day vividly, despite the years that had passed. It wasn’t just because it was his birthday.
Henry and his brother sat on a bench outside their flat. His older brother animatedly recounted the plot of the latest action movie they’d seen at the video rental, mimicking the heroes’ expressions. Lost in their imagination, they didn’t notice their father’s car pull up until they heard his cheerful voice. “Hello, son. Happy Birthday.” Their dad smiled warmly at Henry, pulling something from his coat. “Here’s a little gift,” he said, and out came a tiny fluffy kitten. It was gray with white paws and peered around curiously.
Their mum appeared from the building carrying a blue sports bag that dad usually took on business trips. “Listen, son, I have to leave for a bit, but the main gift will wait for my return,” dad said as he handed Henry the kitten. “Give him some milk at home. I’ll be back by the weekend, and we’ll go to the shop where you can pick out a present yourself, okay? Then, we’ll visit the zoo.” He hugged both boys and ruffled their hair. “Will it take long, Victor?” Mum asked. “I’ll be home tomorrow evening,” he replied, taking the bag from her hands. “Hey, let’s take a photo to remember this moment,” mum suggested.
They had recently bought a point-and-shoot camera, popular at the time, and mum was determined to capture many facets of their lives. “I’m in a hurry,” dad said bashfully. His colleague, Uncle Tom, sitting in the driver’s seat, honked and tapped his watch with a smile. Dad waved as if to say, “Just a minute,” put down the bag, picked up the kitten again, and Henry and his brother stood beside him.
They smiled at the camera, not knowing the kitten would be Henry’s only and last gift from his dad. Dad never returned from that trip. As it later became clear, they were supposed to transport a significant amount of cash. Such dealings were common in the 90s, and someone tipped off a gang.
Mum later recounted that the investigator on the case believed the criminals hadn’t intended to kill. They likely followed them, picked a moment on a deserted road to stage an accident and seize the money. But something went wrong, and the crash was too severe. The car veered off track, overturned, and caught fire. Neither the informant nor the attackers were ever found, and the case was quietly shelved years later. Mum would often recall those days, saying, “I neither know those people nor want to know them. I’ll leave it to God to judge. But I can never forgive them for fleeing, saving their skins while doing nothing to help.”
Henry’s father and Uncle Tom were buried on the same day, in closed caskets. Henry stood next to his sobbing grandmother, his father’s mum, struggling to comprehend that the velvet-lined wooden box held his dad. Maybe that’s why, for over a month, he ran eagerly to the door at every ring, hoping that everything that happened was just a terrible dream and his dad would walk through the door, alive, cheerful, carrying the scent of smoke and petrol. Although his father had keys, he always rang the bell upon returning from trips. Henry would dash to greet him, and dad would smile, pull a gift from his bag, claiming it was from the Easter Bunny. His older brother would tease, “How would bunnies get gifts? There are no shops in the forest!” he laughed. “Oh, you little one.” But Henry paid no mind, feeling proud that forest creatures knew of him and never forgot.
Yet, dad didn’t return, and over time, Henry concocted a tale, a fantasy where a wicked wizard had turned his father into a gray cat. This story grew in detail in his imagination until he sometimes believed it himself. Looking back, Henry wasn’t sure what it was. A defense mechanism or innocent childish hope in miracles. But those fantasies likely helped him cope with the initial sharp pain of loss. Much later, he and his brother, reflecting on those distant days, would feel a strange sensation, as if their father’s spirit had somehow transferred into the gray kitten. As long as the kitten, who later became a cat, lived with them, they felt their dad’s unseen presence as if he were nearby but not visible. In those days, during childhood, they didn’t share this feeling with anyone, not even each other. They named the kitten Butch, after a character from Disney cartoons that aired every Sunday.
Henry, his brother, and their mum adored the cat. Without question, Butch became a mascot, a guardian of their family. He saw them off and welcomed them from school, then college, and mum from work. If someone took ill, Butch would be there, offering comfort with his purrs, lying on the afflicted spot, trying to warm that person, staying until they recovered. The cat lived a long life with their family. But time marched on, and one summer Sunday evening, Butch quietly passed away. By then, his brother had married and moved out. Once he heard about their beloved pet’s death, he came immediately. They all gathered to send off the cat together. How could they not? He was a living memory of their deceased father. Dad was forever remembered as he was that day, joyful, slightly in a hurry, holding a kitten. Henry suspected his mum felt similarly because, on their dad’s monument, besides a full-length photo, she’d had an artist depict a deserted road with a car racing towards the setting sun. They buried the cat just outside the city in a young pine forest. Although years had passed since, and only a faint mound remained, Henry remembered the spot well. Every time he passed by, he would inevitably stop a few minutes to pay respects to their long-time family member.
He was undoubtedly a family member, a part of Henry’s life, who with his passing, took with him an entire chapter—his childhood and adolescence. After a moment of reminiscing over the photograph and smiling gently at the returning memories, Henry picked up his laptop, wiped his eyes with the back of his hand, and left his office.
His family awaited him home. Everyone had gathered: mum, his brother’s family, and a few close friends. When everyone assembled in the living room, his brother and nephews triumphantly carried in a box and presented it to him. They applauded, and his nieces gave him sly smiles, asking him to guess what was inside.
They knew of Henry’s love for computer games, so he started speculating. “Is it a cool joystick, a racing wheel? Did I guess right?” His nieces giggled, shaking their heads, and opened the box. When Henry peered inside, he had to sit quickly on a chair someone had considerately placed behind him. Childhood memories flooded back, and he didn’t hold back the tears that came. In the box was a kitten, identical to the one his dad had once given him. Gray, fluffy, with white socks on its paws. The memories engulfed him—Dad, Butch… In those childhood days, Henry would speak to the cat for hours, sharing his secret joys and sorrows as if he were talking to his dad. He was convinced dad could hear him.
Even as an adult, Henry still secretly believed it. The cat would look at him with understanding, almost human eyes, and gently purr in comfort.
Now, his teenage daughter, coming home from school, heads straight to the kitchen, calling out moments later in a disgruntled voice. “Why are Butch’s bowls empty?! Here kitty, kitty—come here, little one, I’ll feed you now.” The kitten, having just enjoyed his meal with a splash of fresh milk, slyly glanced up at Henry and skittered towards the kitchen to his little mistress’s call.
