**A Quiet Knock at the Door**
Lydia was alone. Entirely alone. A year ago, her mother had passed—her only anchor, her soul, her family. Not long after, Rudy, her old ginger cat and faithful companion of fifteen years, had gone too. The last living soul who had warmed her days. Since then, life had frozen into a numb routine: home, work, the shop, then home again. Day after day. Utterly solitary.
That evening, she came back later than usual—an unplanned meeting had dragged on. Her heart felt heavy, her thoughts tangled. She walked along the pavement, arms wrapped around her coat, wondering, *What’s the point? What’s left to wait for when everything inside me is hollow?* She stepped into the building, reached her door—and froze, breath catching.
On the doormat sat a tiny grey kitten. Neatly striped, with wide, curious eyes. Spotting her, the little thing wobbled to its feet and let out a soft squeak. Lydia scooped it up with trembling hands, pressing it to her chest.
“Where did you come from, little one? Who left you here?” she whispered, barely holding back tears.
A leftover bag of cat food still sat in the cupboard—remnants from Rudy’s time. There was a bowl, too, and a blanket, even an old toy mouse. The kitten ate hungrily, then curled up on the armchair, purring. Lydia watched, afraid to blink, as if the miracle might vanish.
Then her fingers brushed against a thin collar with a silent bell—broken, most likely. No name tag. Someone was missing this baby. Her chest ached. Just as joy had crept in, it seemed it would slip away again.
She wrote notices and stuck them up around the neighbourhood. As she stepped outside, she nearly collided with a man pinning up a flyer: “Lost Kitten.” He’d just moved into the next building over. His name was Nicholas. A careless mistake—he’d left a window open, and the little one had slipped out.
“Come with me—he’s with me,” Lydia said.
The kitten wriggled excitedly in Nicholas’s arms, recognising its human.
“I don’t know how to thank you,” he said, voice unsteady. “If you’d like—come visit us. Whiskers would love that.”
Two days later, they met again. Lydia dropped by for tea. They talked about life, sharing stories. Nicholas admitted he’d recently divorced, no children—now the cat was all he had. Lydia spoke of her mother, of Rudy. The conversation flowed easily, as if they’d known each other for years.
Whiskers sprawled lazily across her lap. Nicholas watched her with quiet warmth. And for the first time in so long, she didn’t feel lonely. She felt… needed.
So began their friendship. Soon, it turned into something deeper. Walks, films, endless conversations… Life began to mean something again. And who would’ve thought? It all started with a tiny ball of fluff on a doormat.
The important thing is to believe happiness can come. And it does. Sometimes quietly, slipping in unnoticed. Sometimes with a purr, pressing close to your heart.
