A year ago, as she trudged home from the market, the old woman heard a faint whimper behind a rubbish bin. There, in a grimy cardboard box, lay a tiny kitten with golden eyes. Thin, shivering, nearly frozenshe thought it just an ordinary stray. Her heart clenched with pity. Wrapping it in her scarf, she cradled it close and carried it home.
From that day on, the creature became her shadow. She gave it a namesomething sweet, fitting for a house pet. The kitten ate greedily, growing stronger. Its paws thickened, its fur darkened, and its gaze grew unsettlingly heavy.
Two months later, when it shredded an old pillow with terrifying ease, the truth struck her like a blow: this was no kitten. It was a lion.
Yet by then, she couldnt bear to part with it. The beast had become her companion, her solace in loneliness. With no family left, the animal was all she had. She hid it from the neighbors, keeping the curtains drawn, rarely stepping outside.
Every penny went to meatjoints of beef and lamb vanished so fast the butchers began whispering.
But the old woman paid no mind. At night, her “kitten” curled beside her, purring in low, rumbling growls as she stroked its thickening mane like any doting owner might.
The neighbors noticed her odd behaviour. Strange, heavy breaths echoed from her flat at nightlike someone pacing or shifting furniture. Jokes spread: “Somethings not right in there.” Then, the laughter stopped. She hadnt been seen in a week.
Worried, a neighbor called the constable. The door creaked open to silenceuntil a scream tore through the flat.
There, under the dim glow of a lamp, sat the lionhuge, golden, its muzzle smeared dark. And on the bed lay the old woman dead for days.
Shed slipped away quietly in her sleep. At first, her beloved beast had only lain beside her. But by the fourth day, hunger won. Red trails led from room to room.
The lion hadnt tried to flee when she died. It knew no life beyond those walls, raised in captivity since infancy.
A wild thing stays wild, no matter how you tame it.
