Margaret stood at the window, watching the frost paint patterns on the glass. They said minus thirty, maybe worse.
She listened.
Voices from below. Then a shout:
“By this evening! Do you hear me?! By this evening that cat must be gone!”
Peter, the housing officer.
Margaret moved away from the window, threw a shawl over her shoulders, and stepped onto the landing. She walked down to the first floor. Neighbours had gathered there—some in slippers, others in jackets left unbuttoned. All stared silently at Peter, who stood in the middle of the hallway, red-faced and furious, jabbing his finger at the corner.
On the radiator, a ginger cat was curled up.
Thin. One ear torn. Shivering.
“There!” the housing officer barked. “There’s your stray! Fur everywhere! Stink! I’m responsible for order, and you’ve turned this place into a shelter!”
“Peter,” said Aunt Zina from the third floor, her voice soft, “he’s not bothering anyone.”
“Not bothering?” Peter spun around so fast the woman stepped back. “Who complained about fur everywhere? Who said he brought fleas? Do you think I’m joking?”
Aunt Zina looked away.
Margaret clenched her fists.
She wanted to say something. She did. But her throat tightened and the words got stuck somewhere inside.
“Right,” Peter cut in. “By six o’clock tonight—I don’t want a trace of him. If you don’t get rid of him, I’ll throw him out into the street. Understood?”
He looked at everyone. No one answered.
“Understood, I said?”
“Understood,” someone muttered.
Peter nodded, slammed the door, and left.
The neighbours slowly drifted away, sighing.
And the cat stayed on the radiator—a ginger lump that didn’t even realise it was about to be thrown out into the frost.
Margaret went up to her flat on the fourth floor. Closed the door. Sat on the kitchen chair and stared at the wall.
It would be minus thirty tonight.
He would freeze.
She knew that for certain.
Because one winter she had found a sparrow under the entrance—tiny, frozen, its wings pressed close to its body. She brought it home, tried to warm it, but it was too late. Much too late.
Margaret stood up, walked to the window.
“Lord,” she breathed quietly, “what am I to do?”
She sat down again. Her hands trembled.
She was afraid. Afraid of a scene. Afraid Peter would start screaming. That the neighbours would turn away. That they would call her crazy.
But most of all, she was afraid to imagine that ginger lump lying in a snowdrift—stiff, eyes open.
Margaret went downstairs just before evening.
The cat was still lying on the radiator. It raised its head when she approached. Looked at her with yellow, wary eyes.
“What are you doing here?” she murmured. “Nowhere to go?”
The cat was silent.
Margaret reached out—stroked its battered back. It flinched but didn’t move away. Began to purr quietly.
She went back up to her flat.
At half past five, voices again echoed in the hallway. Margaret peered out—opened the door just a crack.
Peter stood downstairs. Two men from the next entrance stood beside him. One held a sack.
“There, the pest,” the housing officer said, nodding at the cat. “Take him.”
The man with the sack stepped forward.
And then, as if on purpose, Aunt Zina came out of her flat. She stopped when she saw them.
“What are you doing?”
“What does it look like?” Peter snapped. “Cleaning up, as agreed.”
“Peter, maybe you don’t have to?” Aunt Zina said quietly. “Maybe someone will take him?”
“Who?” he roared. “You? Or all these people living in the building who keep silent? No! I’m the one who cleans up again!”
Aunt Zina looked away.
“Exactly,” Peter hissed.
Margaret stood at the top of the stairs, listening. Her heart pounded so hard it felt like it would leap out.
Downstairs, the man dropped the sack over the cat. It screamed—wild, desperate. Clawed. But they shoved it inside anyway and tied the sack.
“That’s done,” Peter said. “Carry it to the bins. If it’s smart, it’ll get out on its own.”
The men carried the sack towards the exit.
The door slammed.
Margaret let go of the door handle. Her hands shook. Her legs wobbled.
She went back to the kitchen. Sat down. Stared at the wall.
But a minute later, she jumped up.
Grabbed her coat. Pulled on her wellingtons. Wrapped her shawl.
Rushed onto the staircase.
Ran down so fast she nearly fell at the turn.
Threw open the entrance door.
Margaret ran towards the bins.
The sack lay in a snowdrift beside the rubbish container.
She untied it. Her hands trembled—the knot wouldn’t come loose.
The sack opened.
“Alive,” Margaret breathed. “Alive, thank God.”
She scooped up the cat—it was light, almost weightless. Pressed it to her chest, covered it with the flaps of her coat.
Ran back.
In the hallway, voices again.
Peter stood by the post boxes, smoking. He saw her—with the cat in her arms—and his face twisted.
“What do you think you’re doing?!” he shouted.
Margaret stopped. Caught her breath.
“I’m taking him home,” she said. Her voice wavered, but the words came out clear.
“Taking him where?!” Peter stepped towards her. “I said I didn’t want a trace of him!”
“You said not in the hallway,” Margaret lifted her chin. “So I’m taking him. Into my flat. With me.”
“Have you lost your mind?!” He poked a finger at her chest.
Margaret climbed to the fourth floor.
Went into her flat. Closed the door.
Sat on the floor—still in her coat, her wellingtons.
The cat lay on her lap. It opened one eye, looked at her.
“It’s over,” Margaret whispered. “It’s over. You’re home now.”
Her hands trembled. Tears ran down her cheeks.
But inside—for the first time in years—it was warm and calm.
A week later, Peter came to Margaret’s door.
He knocked—softly, almost timidly.
She opened it, surprised.
“You? Something happened?”
He stood on the threshold—no jacket, just an old jumper.
“May I?” he asked.
Margaret nodded. Let him in.
Peter walked into the kitchen. Sat down. The cat jumped off the windowsill, sniffed his boots, and padded into the other room.
“Tea?” Margaret offered.
“No need.”
He was silent. Then sighed.
“I didn’t come to apologise,” Peter said, exhaling. “Just wanted to say. You did the right thing.”
He stood up. Walked to the door.
“Peter,” Margaret called.
He turned.
“Will you have tea anyway?”
He paused. Then nodded.
“Yes.”
They sat in the kitchen—drank tea, said nothing. The cat jumped onto Margaret’s lap and purred.
“What did you call him?” the housing officer asked.
“Ginger,” Margaret smiled. “Just Ginger.”
Peter nodded. Finished his tea. Stood up.
“Well, I’ll be off.”
“Peter,” Margaret called again. “If you like, drop by. For tea.”
He looked at her. A faint smile.
“I will.”
A month passed. Then another.
Ginger had filled out. His coat shone. His ear healed. He slept on the windowsill—where the morning sun fell.
The neighbours got used to him. Aunt Zina sometimes brought leftover fish. Nina offered sour cream. Even the man from the fifth floor once brought a scratching post.
“Found it by the bins,” he said. “Seems whole.”
Margaret accepted the gifts—and was always surprised.
Outside, snow fell. The frost painted patterns on the glass.
But inside the flat, it was warm.
And in her heart, too.
