**Diary Entry 12th February**
I spotted youdont slink away. What are you doing in our stairwell? The cat glanced up guiltily, silently shifting frost-heavy paws at the edge of a puddle formed by melting ice clinging to its matted fur.
No one remembered exactly when this scruffy stray had appeared in the courtyard. It lived quietly, almost invisibly, like a shadowbeautiful but filthy and gaunt. The neighbours only recalled it turning up in spring.
A girl, Emily Whitmore, sometimes fed it when she could, doing what little she could: leaving the cellar door ajar in winter if it wasnt locked, laying out old jumpers for bedding, even once daubing its paw with green ointment when she noticed a wound.
So the cat livedsilent, cautious, nearly unseen.
Then, one day, it watched as the same girl stepped out of the building in a white dress, flowers in her hair, arm-in-arm with a man in a smart suit. Laughter, applause, ribbons on carsthen they were gone. After that, Emily was never seen again.
The cat was alone. Hunger drove it to the bins at nightquieter in the dark, a chance to scavenge before the stray dogs returned. Avoiding those brutes was the rule. It survived like that until the bitter frosts came, and the new caretaker locked the cellar, driving it out.
Where could it go? Half-frozen, it tried the stairwell. But no one wanted it theresome shooed it away, others kicked and shouted. Not a soul let the shivering creature inside.
One evening, desperate, it crept into the end terraces stairwell. Too weak to fear or hope. It didnt care anymorejust didnt want to freeze to death that night.
Mrs. Elizabeth StephensLiz to the neighboursspotted it first. Shed been checking her postbox for the rent bill. A stern but fair woman, respected in the building. Never one to mince words, even the residents association tread carefully around her.
The cat, slipped in behind someone, huddled by the radiator, barely breathing. Its fur was icy, eyes pleading and exhausted.
I see youno hiding. What brought you here? Freezing and starved, arent you? Liz scolded.
The creature lifted its gaze, paws stiff with cold, ice slowly melting beneath them.
What am I to do with you? Wait here
She knew hunger. War had taught her that. She climbed to her flat, then returned with a bowl of food, water, and a moth-eaten old cardigan.
There, eat. Poor thingdont fret, I wont take it back, she sighed, watching the cat gulp down the mashed potatoes and liver scraps.
She spread the cardigan, then left, forgetting the rent bill entirely.
The cat, warm for the first time in ages, decided: this was home now, and the stern but kind woman was its keeper.
To avoid being driven out again, it behavedquiet, disciplined, like it had in some past life as a house pet. Liz even gave it a name: Maisie.
Not everyone approved. The Pembrokes from the third floor came down. Edward stopped, glaring at the cat.
Running a zoo now, are we?
His wife, wrapped in faux fur, pinched her nose. Edward, it stinks!
Get rid of it, he ordered.
Liz straightened. Why? Its not bothering anyone. It stays.
Fine. Ill call the council. Theyll take itand fine *you*. This is common space!
Lovely. And Ill ring HMRC. Lets see how a warehouse manager affords *your* lifestylepilfered goods, wasnt it? Neighbors will back me. Harm that cat, and youll regret it.
After that, Maisie was left alone. Even the snippy dachshund, George, ignored her.
Weeks passed. The building adjusted. But Liz knew: Maisie wasnt truly safe. Though the cat trusted *her*, it still acted like a stray.
She considered taking it in, but Maisie shied from doorways, as if haunted. Liz didnt push. She waited, hoping one day itd dare to enter.
And sometimes, when Liz left her door ajar, Maisie would linger, watching, listeningbut never crossing.
Then, in February, during a blizzard, Liz woke gaspingpain spearing her chest. The room blurred.
Neighbors were roused by Maisies frantic yowls, claws tearing at the door.
They knocked. No answer. Mrs. Nina from upstairs fetched the spare key. We agreedfor emergencies.
An ambulance was called. Maisie refused to leavehuddled under the bed, wailing.
Liz had no family. The war had taken them. She was alone.
But neighbours visited the hospital, bringing little gifts. Each time, shed whisper, Look after my Maisie. Feed her. Let her back. She saved me.
Three weeks later, on a March morning, Liz came home. Maisie waited at the door, as if shed known.
Liz held out her arms. Come on, love. Lets go home.
Together, they stepped inside. That evening, Liz held her for the first time. Maisie purred, pressing close.
Alright, love Weve a little life left in us yet.
**Lesson:** Sometimes the smallest, quietest souls teach us the loudest lessonsabout kindness, about home.
