One evening, happiness knocked on the door.
Lydia was alone. Completely alone. A year ago, her mother had passed away—her only anchor, her heart, her family. Not long after, Rudy, her old ginger cat and loyal companion of fifteen years, was gone too. The last living soul who had warmed her days. After that, life seemed frozen: home, work, the shops, then home again. Day after day. Utterly solitary.
That night, she returned from work later than usual—stuck in an unplanned meeting. Her heart felt heavy, her thoughts tangled. She walked along the pavement, arms wrapped around her coat, and wondered, *”What’s the point? What’s left for me when my heart’s so empty?”* Lydia stepped into the stairwell, reached her front door—and suddenly froze, holding her breath.
On the doormat sat a tiny grey kitten. Neatly striped, it stared up at her with wide, curious eyes. Spotting her, it wobbled to its feet and let out a faint mewl. With trembling hands, Lydia scooped it up, pressing the little creature to her chest.
“Where did you come from, little one? Who left you here?” she whispered, fighting back tears.
A leftover pack of cat food still sat in the cupboard—leftover from Rudy’s time. The bowl, the blanket, even his favourite ribbon toy were still there. The kitten ate eagerly, then curled up on the armchair, purring softly. Lydia watched it, afraid to scare the miracle away.
But then her fingers brushed a slim collar with a tiny bell—silent, probably broken. No name tag. Someone was missing this little soul. Her chest ached. Just as she’d let happiness in, she had to let it go.
She printed flyers and posted them around the neighbourhood. As she stepped outside, she nearly bumped into a man pinning up a notice: *”Missing Kitten.”* He’d just moved into the next building. His name was Oliver. He’d left a window open by mistake—the kitten had slipped out.
“Come with me,” Lydia said. “He’s at my place.”
The kitten leapt excitedly into Oliver’s arms, recognising its owner at once.
“I don’t know how to thank you,” Oliver said, his voice warm with relief. “If you’d like, come visit sometime. Tigger would love that.”
Two days later, they met again. Lydia stopped by for tea. They spoke about life, sharing stories. Oliver admitted he’d recently divorced, no children—just the cat now. Lydia told him about her mother, about Rudy. They talked for hours, calm and easy, as if they’d known each other forever.
Tigger sprawled lazily across her lap. Oliver watched her with quiet warmth. And for the first time in ages, Lydia didn’t feel alone. She felt needed.
And so it began. Their meetings grew into something more. Walks, films, long conversations… Life had meaning again. Who would’ve thought it all started with a tiny ball of fluff on a doormat?
The most important thing is to believe happiness can come. And it does. Sometimes quiet, unnoticed. Sometimes mewing and nuzzling against your heart.
