Linda snaps the lock shut on her small grocery store in a Kyiv neighbourhood and breathes out in relief. Perfect. Two days off ahead – no queues, no weighing produce, no loading or unloading.
“Linda, are you working tomorrow?” calls a familiar voice from behind her.
She doesn’t even need to turn around – she already knows who it is. Mr. Baker. Always at the wrong time.
“Tomorrow is Sunday,” she snaps without turning. “Day off.”
“Ah, I see. Never mind, I’ll come on Monday then.”
Linda finally turns around. The old man stands with a worn string bag, in a faded jacket, looking at her with a kind of lost expression. As if he was hoping for something.
“He’ll spend half an hour counting his kopiyky again,” flashes through her mind.
“Come on Monday,” she tosses out and walks towards home.
He always does this – arrives just before closing, picks out two or three small items, then starts fumbling in his wallet at the till, counting his coins. A queue forms behind him, people sigh, but he seems not to notice. So slow. It’s just annoying.
On Sunday morning, passing by the shop, Linda stops dead in her tracks.
A cat sits by the door. An ordinary stray, grey, scruffy, and very thin. But the strange thing is – she isn’t just sitting. She paces from door to window, scratches the threshold with her claws, peers into the gap, meows. So pitifully, so desperately.
“Shoo!” Linda waves her hand.
The cat doesn’t even flinch. She just stares at the door.
“Homeless,” Linda thinks and walks on.
On Monday, Linda approaches the shop with a heavy feeling. The cat hasn’t gone anywhere. She lies curled up by the doorstep, exhausted.
The key turns in the lock. The door swings open.
And then Linda hears it. A thin, barely noticeable squeak. Somewhere in the corner, behind the shelves.
She steps inside, looks closer – and her heart plummets.
A kitten. Tiny, blind, helpless. Lying among the cardboard boxes, squeaking pitifully, moving its little paws.
The cat dashes in after Linda, jumps to the kitten, starts licking it, purring.
“Oh my God,” Linda whispers. “So you were trying to get back to him.”
Linda stands over the cardboard box, not knowing what to do. The cat settles next to the kitten, licking it, purring – for the first time in a day, she’s calm.
“You can’t keep animals in the shop. Where can I put them?” Linda thinks.
“Listen, you’re something else,” she mutters aloud. “How did you even get in? When did you manage it?”
The cat just presses closer to the kitten.
Linda remembers: on Friday evening, as she was closing, customers crowded at the entrance. Bustle, rush. She must have slipped in then. Unnoticed. And gave birth at night, when the shop stood empty.
And all Sunday she was pacing outside, trying to get back in.
“Alright,” Linda breathes out. “We’ll figure something out now.”
She pours water into a plastic cup for the cat, breaks off a piece of boiled sausage from her own sandwich. The cat drinks greedily, hurriedly, as if afraid it will be taken away.
Then Linda opens the shop for customers.
The first to enter is Aunt Val, a neighbour. She sees the cat and kitten and throws up her hands: “Oh, Linda! Where from?”
“Well…” Linda waves her hand. “She got in somehow. Listen, Val, could you take them? Your grandchildren love animals, don’t they?”
Aunt Val grimaces: “We already have a cat. Old and mean. He’d kill them all. No, no, sorry.”
Next is Uncle Mike the plumber. He also refuses: “My wife won’t allow it. She sneezes from the fur.”
Then a young mother comes in with a child. The little one even reaches out to the kitten, but the mother pulls him back: “Don’t touch! It’s dirty! All sorts of diseases. Let’s get out of here.”
Linda stands behind the counter and feels something tightening inside. Each refusal echoes in her chest like a dull thud.
“Will no one take them?”
By lunchtime, she’s already given up hope.
Around three in the afternoon, the door opens and Mr. Baker walks in. As usual – slowly, cautiously. String bag in hand. He greets quietly, nods.
Linda doesn’t even have time to reply – he stops at the entrance, crouches down next to the box.
“Oh,” he says softly. “Who do we have here?”
The cat lifts her head, looks at him warily. He carefully reaches out a hand, strokes the cat’s head. She closes her eyes, starts purring.
“Linda,” he turns to the shopkeeper. “What will happen to them?”
Linda sighs: “I don’t know, Mr. Baker. I can’t keep them here. And no one wants to take them.”
He pauses, then strokes the cat again. The kitten squeaks softly, moves.
“Could I,” Mr. Baker begins, then hesitates. “Could I take them?”
Linda freezes. Stares at the old man, can’t believe her ears.
“You?” she repeats. “Seriously?”
“Well, yes.” He smiles shyly. “I’m bored all alone anyway. Now I’ll have some company. Though I don’t know how to look after them. But I’ll learn. I’ll read up on the internet.”
Linda feels a lump in her throat. This slow old man she’s rushed so many times, hurried along, been annoyed at. He turns out to be the only one who didn’t walk past.
“Mr. Baker,” she forces out. “Thank you. Really. Thank you.”
He waves his hands: “Oh, not at all. It gives me pleasure. My home is empty. My wife died three years ago. No children. So I come here every day just to exchange a word with someone.”
Linda feels ashamed. So ashamed she wants to sink into the ground. She always got annoyed that he was slow. That he held up the queue. And he’s just lonely.
Mr. Baker carefully takes the box with the cat and kitten. Holds it from underneath to keep it steady. The cat looks at him warily but doesn’t resist. As if she understands – this man won’t hurt her.
“Only I don’t know how to carry them home,” he says thoughtfully. “The box is big, awkward. They’re jostling about in there.”
“Wait,” Linda dashes to the stockroom and returns with a sturdy smaller cardboard box. “Here, this is better. And it has handles.”
She transfers the cat and kitten herself, lays a soft rag at the bottom. Her hands tremble. Not sure why – whether from excitement or from the shame that gnaws stronger inside.
“Linda,” Mr. Baker says with an uncertain smile, “could you advise me – what should I buy for them? They need some food, I suppose? A bowl?”
Linda suddenly sees clearly: the old man is lost. He’s taken on responsibility but has no idea what to do next. Yet he still took them. Because he couldn’t walk past.
“Wait,” she says decisively. “Now.”
She walks along the shelves, collecting everything needed: a can of meat for the cat, a bag of dry food, two plastic bowls, a pack of litter.
“This is for you,” she hands the bag to Mr. Baker.
“Oh, I’ll pay.”
“No need,” Linda cuts him off. “From me. Just because.”
He wants to argue, but she gives him such a stern look that he just nods: “Thank you. Very much.”
Mr. Baker picks up the box and the bag, heads for the exit. At the door he turns: “Linda, do you think I should take them to the vet?”
“Yes,” she nods. “Go tomorrow. Have them checked.”
“Alright. I will.”
He leaves. The door closes with a soft chime.
Linda is alone.
The shop is quiet. Empty. Only on the floor, in the corner, lies the old cardboard box – the one where the kitten lay.
She approaches, picks it up, wants to throw it away. And suddenly can’t. She sits right down on the floor, presses the box to her chest, and cries.
Tears roll down her cheeks, drip onto the cardboard.
She remembers how she got annoyed at Mr. Baker. How she hurried him. How she sighed when he entered the shop. How she thought: “That old man again. He’ll spend half an hour counting his kopiyky.”
But he turned out to be something else. Without hesitation, he took the cat and kitten. Even though he barely makes ends meet – that’s obvious from his clothes, from the way he counts his small change in his wallet. But he didn’t walk past.
“God,” Linda thinks, “what a fool I am. How callous.”
She wipes her tears with her palm, gets up from the floor. Throws the box in the bin. Returns behind the counter.
Customers start coming in. An ordinary working day.
But something inside Linda has changed. She looks at the customers differently. No longer just as a queue to serve quickly. But as people, each with their own story. And you never know what’s in a person’s heart.
Tomorrow she will definitely ask Mr. Baker how the cat and kitten are doing. How they’re settling in. If he needs any help.
And she will never rush him again.
Two days pass.
Linda keeps waiting for Mr. Baker. She glances at the door, listens for footsteps in the corridor. But he doesn’t come.
Anxiety grows. “What if something happened? What if he fell ill? Or something’s wrong with the cat?”
On the third day she can’t stand it.
She asks the neighbours for the address. Turns out Mr. Baker lives in the next building, on the third floor.
Linda buys a bag of apples, a packet of biscuits – just for politeness, not to come empty-handed – and after work she goes to his place.
The door doesn’t open immediately. Then shuffling footsteps are heard, and Mr. Baker appears on the threshold. Surprised, confused.
“Linda? You… came to see me?”
“Yes,” she holds out the bag. “I decided to visit. How are you? How’s the cat and kitten?”
The old man’s face lights up with a smile. So warm, so genuine, that Linda feels lighter in her heart.
“Come in, come in!” He steps aside. “They’re doing wonderfully!”
The flat is small, modest. Old furniture, worn carpet. But clean and cosy.
On the windowsill, on a folded blanket, dozes the cat. Next to her, the kitten scampers – already stronger, fluffy.
“Here they are,” Mr. Baker says proudly. “I named the cat Molly. And the kitten – Titch. Because he’s so quiet.”
Linda approaches, gently strokes Molly. The cat opens one eye, purrs, and dozes off again.
“They’re beautiful,” Linda says softly.
“Yes, they are.” Mr. Baker beams. “You know, I took them to the vet. Everything’s fine.”
He talks on and on – about how Molly hid under the sofa the first night, carrying the kitten with her, how she settled in later, how she now greets him at the door when he comes home.
Leaving, Linda lingers at the door: “Mr. Baker, do come to the shop. I’ll be waiting.”
He nods: “I will.”
And adds quietly: “Thank you, Linda. For everything.”
“Thank you,” she replies. “You’re a real person.”
The next day Mr. Baker comes to the shop again. As usual – slowly, with his string bag.
But this time Linda greets him with a smile. She brings a stool from the back room, places it next to the counter: “Have a seat, Mr. Baker. Don’t rush. I’m in no hurry.”
He nods gratefully. Sits down. Begins to choose his groceries slowly.
And for the first time, Linda doesn’t hurry the old man.
