Thomas lit his fourth cigarette in a row, but the taste of tobacco and the sting of smoke barely registered. He sat hunched on the weathered bench outside the flats, twisting the stub between his fingers, his gaze fixed on the fourth-floor window where Lydia lived.
“Bloody fool,” he muttered under his breath, flicking the cigarette butt toward the overflowing bin. It missed, of course. With a sigh, he stood, gathered the stubs, and shoved them deep into the rubbish. Returning to the bench, he hesitated before pulling out the last smoke—maybe later. *If he even wanted it.*
To distract himself, he scanned the street. His eyes landed on four cats, all sitting rigid, their necks craned toward that same fourth-floor window.
*Lydia would’ve taken them all in by now,* he thought bitterly. He knew her too well. How many times had she dragged half-dead strays home—nursing them, feeding them, melting the frost from their eyes? She loved animals—maybe more than people. And sometimes, it stung. Not for his sake. For humanity’s. Though after thirty years, he’d come to realize some folks just weren’t worth loving. Himself included.
Remembering how he’d left her was agony. He’d walked out when she needed him most. Found out she couldn’t have children, and he’d bolted. Dreams of a son, fishing trips, first days at school… All of it had mattered more than love. Or so he’d thought. Back then, he’d been certain it was right—better for them both. Now? Now he knew it for what it was: cowardice.
He closed his eyes, exhaled, opened them again. The cats still waited. Just like him.
He needed to decide—go up or walk away. After all these years. After everything.
Her message replayed in his head: *”Sorry for it all. Just wanted to see you one last time…”* No mention of illness. Just that.
A young woman approached—early twenties, looking uncertain.
“Excuse me, do you have the time? My phone’s dead.”
“Ten to five,” Thomas grunted.
“You wouldn’t happen to be Edward, would you? I’m supposed to meet someone here—”
“No. Thomas.”
“Oh… Are you waiting for someone too?”
He smirked but didn’t answer. The girl lingered before finally walking off, glancing back once.
Thomas stood. *Might as well go up. Came all this way.* He trudged toward the entrance, climbed the stairs, and pressed the buzzer.
The door opened to a girl—barely more than a teenager.
“You must be Thomas. Come in. Lydia said you might visit.”
“And you are?”
“Emma. I live next door. I help her sometimes. Anyway, I’ll be off—she’s got my number if needed.”
With that, Emma vanished. And Thomas… Thomas stood frozen on the threshold. This was the flat where he and Lydia had started their life. Where it had all ended. Was it ever a home, or just a place where things began? He didn’t know.
“Tom? What’re you doing out there?” Lydia’s voice—weaker now—drifted from the bedroom. “Get in here.”
He kicked off his shoes, ran a hand through his hair, and stepped inside.
“Hello, Lydia,” he managed, voice cracking.
“Hello… Knew it was you straight off. No one else is coming.”
” *No one?*”
“No one. Sit. Take the chair by the window.” She gestured weakly. “Stay awhile. Let me look at you one last time.”
She tried to shift upright—winced—and gave up with a gasp.
“Need help?”
“Don’t bother… Actually, fine. Help.”
He moved closer, the sharp scent of medicine hitting him as he steadied her.
“Ta,” she whispered, smiling faintly. “Better now.”
“You’re… it’s serious, isn’t it?”
“No, Thomas. I’m not ill. I’m dying. Just… dying.”
He froze. She said it calmly. Casually. Like discussing the rain.
“I don’t—you never said—”
“Didn’t want to. Just… wanted to see you. Wanted to say… thirty years, and not a day’s gone by I haven’t thought of you.”
She spoke fast, as if racing time. He listened, something inside him splintering.
“I wanted to say sorry… For never giving you children. I know you dreamed of it. But if I could live it again—I’d choose you. Every time.”
Thomas fought back tears. Tried to smile. Failed.
” *I’m* the one who should be sorry. For *everything*.”
“No. You did what you thought was right. But y’know? I never had anyone else. Never forgot you. Not once.”
He stood abruptly, snatching the medical papers from the nightstand. Scanned them, breath catching—diagnosis, metastases, chemo, *terminal*—
“Lydia, there’s still options—surgeries, treatments—”
“Low chances. And living? I don’t *want* to. Not without you.”
And *that’s* when he understood. She’d loved him. All this time. And he—he’d never stopped either. Which meant he couldn’t walk away. Not again.
He left the flat. Outside, the cats still waited, watching him, as if asking, *”Well?”*
He scooped them up—all four—and marched back inside.
“What’re you doing with them?” Lydia coughed out a laugh.
“We’re fixing you,” he said, grinning. “You’re not dying today.”
The cats clambered onto the bed, purring. And Thomas—Thomas leaned down and kissed her. *Properly.* For the first time in thirty years.
She cried. For joy.
The road was hard. Brutally so. But the doctors said, “Will to live matters most. And support.”
And Lydia finally had both.
She fought. Survived. Lived years more—with Thomas, with the cats, with *love.* The real kind.
Might sound like a fairy tale. But it happened.
Because love—and cats—really do work miracles.
