I haven’t got long left… But you came.
Geoffrey was on his fourth cigarette in a row, but he barely tasted the tobacco or noticed the smoke. He just sat there on the old bench by the front door, rolling the stub between his fingers, stubbornly staring up at the fourth-floor window—where Lucy lived.
*What the hell am I even doing here?* he muttered under his breath before flicking the butt toward the overflowing bin. Missed, as usual. With a sigh, he pushed himself up, trudged over, scooped up all four stubs, and shoved them deep into the rubbish. Then he returned to the bench, sat, thought about lighting his last cigarette—changed his mind. Best save it… just in case.
To distract himself, he let his eyes wander. That’s when he spotted them—four cats, all sitting by the building, necks stretched out, staring up at that same fourth-floor window.
*Lucy would’ve dragged every last one of them inside by now,* Geoffrey smirked. He knew her too well. How many half-dead strays had she nursed back to life? Fed, warmed, melted the ice in their eyes. She loved animals… maybe more than people. And sometimes, that stung. Not for himself—for humanity. Though after thirty years, he’d figured out the truth: some people just weren’t worth loving. Himself included.
Thinking about what he’d done to Lucy was agony. He’d left her when she needed him most. Found out she couldn’t have children, and he bolted. All those dreams—a son, fishing trips, first day at school—suddenly mattered more than love. Or so he’d told himself. At the time, he’d been sure it was the right call. That it was better for them both. Now? Now he knew he’d been a coward.
He shut his eyes. Breathed. Opened them. The cats were still there. Waiting. Just like him.
He had to decide—was he going up there? After all this time? After everything?
Her message played in his head: *”Sorry for everything. Just wanted to see you one last time…”* No mention of illness. Just that.
Then a girl approached—early twenties, wide-eyed.
“Excuse me, do you know what time it is? My phone’s dead.”
“Ten to five,” Geoffrey replied.
“You’re not… James, are you? I was supposed to meet someone here—”
“No. Geoffrey.”
“Oh… You waiting for someone too?”
He smirked, didn’t answer. She lingered awkwardly before walking off, glancing back.
Geoffrey stood. *Well, I’m here now—might as well go in.* He walked slowly to the entrance, climbed the stairs, pressed the buzzer.
The door swung open to reveal a young woman—just a kid, really.
“You must be Geoffrey? Come in. Lucy said you might stop by.”
“And you are?”
“Emily. I live next door. I help her out.” She grabbed her coat. “I’ll leave you to it—she’s got my number if anything comes up.”
And just like that, she vanished. And he… he was frozen in the doorway. This was the flat where he and Lucy had started their life together. Where it had all fallen apart. Had it ever really been a home, or just the starting point of a mistake? He didn’t know.
“Geoff, what’re you doing out there?” Lucy’s voice floated from the bedroom. “Get in here.”
He toed off his shoes, ran a hand through his hair in the hallway mirror. Stepped inside.
“Hi, Lucy,”—his voice cracked.
“Hi… Recognised you straight away. No one else’ll be visiting.”
“Really? No one at all?”
“Not a soul. Sit—take the chair by the window.” She gestured weakly. “Keep me company. Last chance to get a proper look at you.”
She tried to push herself up—winced, gave up.
“Need help?”
“Don’t… Actually, yeah. Help.”
He moved closer, the sharp tang of medicine hitting him as he slid an arm under her shoulders.
“Thanks,” Lucy smiled. “That’s better.”
“You… you’re really sick?”
“No, Geoffrey. I’m not sick. I’m dying. Just… dying.”
His breath stopped. She said it so calmly. Like she was talking about the weather.
“I don’t—you never mentioned this…”
“Didn’t want to. Just… wanted to see you. Needed to say… these thirty years, not a single day’s gone by where I didn’t think of you.”
The words spilled out fast, like she was racing time. Every syllable carved into him.
“I wanted to apologise… For never giving you children. I know you wanted them. But if I could live it all again? I’d still choose you. Every time.”
Geoffrey swallowed hard, tears burning. Tried to smile—failed.
*I’m* the one who should be begging forgiveness… for everything.”
“Nah, you did what you thought was right. But y’know… I never had anyone else. Never forgot you. Not once.”
He stood abruptly, grabbed the medical papers from the nightstand. Scanned them—diagnosis, metastases, chemotherapy, *no further options*—
“Lucy, there’s got to be something—surgery, experimental treatments—”
“Low odds. And honestly? I’m done. Done without you.”
And then it hit him. She’d loved him all this time. And he’d never stopped loving her. Which meant he couldn’t just walk away.
He left the flat. The cats were still outside, watching him like, *Well? What now?*
He scooped them up—all four—and marched back inside.
“Why’d you bring them?” Lucy frowned.
“Gonna fix you up,” he said, grinning. “You’re not checking out early.”
The cats leapt onto the bed, purring like engines. And then—he kissed her. Properly. For the first time in decades.
And she cried. Happy tears.
The treatment was brutal. But the doctors said: “Will to live? Support system? That’s half the battle.”
And Lucy had both now.
She pulled through. Beat it. Lived years more—with Geoffrey, with the cats, with *love*. The real kind.
Sounds like a fairy tale, doesn’t it? But it happened.
Because love—and cats—work bloody miracles.
