For two weeks, a cat kept appearing by the window. The staff couldnt believe it when they finally learned the reason.
Emily rushed into the break roomfresh out of nursing school, her cheeks flushed, eyes sparkling.
“Margaret! You wont believe ithes back again!”
“Whos back?” the head nurse sighed, rubbing her temples. The night shift had been exhausting, and now this
“The cat! Grey, with one white ear Hes been sitting there for an hour! And he comes every single day, can you imagine?”
“What do you mean, every day?”
Margaret, the head of the intensive care unit, shuffled through paperwork before her rounds. A new patient in Ward Four still hadnt regained consciousness. Fourteen days in a coma after being hit at a pedestrian crossingsome reckless driver running a red light. As if they didnt have enough to deal with already.
Emily perched on the edge of a chair.
“Its been two weeks now. He sits by the window where Mrs. Thompson is. The orderlies shoo him away, but he keeps coming back. Weve started calling him the Night Watchman.”
Margaret frowned. Stray animals were the last thing they needed! She was about to scold the young nurse, but something in Emilys voice made her pause. Instead, she stood and walked to the window.
There, on the ledge, sat the catjust as Emily had described. Grey, with one white ear. Thin but clearly once well cared for. He sat unnaturally upright, like a sentry, his gaze fixed on the window of the ward where the new patient lay.
“Honestly, what nonsense,” Margaret muttered. “A woman clinging to life, and were talking about cats.”
But something about the situation gnawed at her. The cats persistence, his refusal to leaveit spoke of a loyalty few humans ever showed.
“What do we know about the patient?” she suddenly asked.
Emily shrugged. “Not much. Mrs. Thompson, fifty-two. Lives alone, visited sometimes by her daughter. She was hit near her home”
“Which home?”
“That grey block of flats just past the hospital fence,” Emily gestured vaguely.
Margaret looked back at the cat. He turned his head as if sensing her stare, and a shiver ran down her spine at the intensity in his eyes.
The answer came unexpectedly later that day, when the patients daughter brought in medical records. A photograph slipped outMrs. Thompson in an armchair, cradling a grey cat with one white ear.
“Who who is this?” Margarets voice wavered.
The daughter sniffled. “Thats Whiskers. Mums cat. He went missing two years agodarted out when the janitors left the door open. She put up posters, searched every street” She wiped her eyes. “She even refused to move. Said, What if Whiskers comes back? How will he find me?”
Margaret felt a chill. The cat *had* found herbut too late. He must have been nearby when the ambulance took her away, followed it here, and somehow pinpointed her window.
“And where does she live?” Margaret asked.
“Just behind the hospital. That grey block of flats”
A shrill alarm from Mrs. Thompsons monitor cut through the silence. They ranMargaret, Emily, the daughter. The screen showed the first signs of her waking. The cat was forgotten in the chaos.
When Mrs. Thompson finally opened her eyes, the world was a blur of lights and voices.
“Mum?” her daughter whispered. “Can you hear me?”
She managed a weak nod. The tubes left her throat raw, her mouth dry.
“Easy now,” Margaret soothed. “No rush. Youre doing great.”
Later, her daughter held her hand, tearful but smiling.
“Mum, Ive got a surprise. You wont believe itWhiskers is back!”
Mrs. Thompson stiffened, eyes widening.
“Dont excite her,” Margaret warned.
But the daughter stroked her mothers hand. “He found you! Came here every day, sat by your window When I brought the photo, they recognised him straightaway.”
Tears rolled down Mrs. Thompsons cheeks.
“I took him home,” her daughter continued. “At first, he kept trying to come back here. But weve made a dealIll bring him to visit once youre better.”
When Mrs. Thompson was moved to a regular ward, her daughter arrived with a large carrier, its occupant grumbling.
“No pets allowed,” a nurse snapped.
Margaret waved her off. “Let him stay. That cats earned his place here more than most.”
Whiskers darted to the bed, nuzzling his owners face, purring loud enough to fill the room. She laughed through tears, trembling fingers stroking his fur.
“Honestly,” Emily whispered, wiping her own eyes, “its like something out of a film.”
From then on, Whiskers came daily, somehow knowing the exact visiting hours. At precisely four, hed pace by the door, meowing impatiently.
“How do you even know?” his owners daughter marvelled. “Can you read clocks?”
Hed only flick his tail, as if to say, *Hurry up, Mums waiting.*
“You know,” Margaret remarked one day, watching them, “in twenty years of medicine, Ive seen a lot. But this” She shook her head. “Maybe we humans still have a thing or two to learn about loyalty.”
Back home, Whiskers curled up beside Mrs. Thompsons bedjust as he had two years ago, as if no time had passed.
And Margaret? She walks a little differently now. When people say animals cant love, or that miracles dont happen, she just smiles. She knows better. The real miracles dont come from fairy talesthey come from love.
And every time she passes that grey block of flats, she glances up at the third-floor window. There, sunbathing on the ledge, is a familiar silhouetteWhiskers, eyes half-closed in contentment.
