I was born under a forgotten staircase, in a narrow alley where sunlight rarely touched the ground. My mother was a stray—thin, gentle, always tired. She did her best, feeding us even when she was starving herself. But one by one, my siblings vanished. Some were taken by the cold, others by things I never want to remember.
I survived. I don’t know how. Maybe luck. Maybe fate. But surviving and living aren’t the same.
Each day, I wandered the streets with a heavy heart and an empty belly. I learned to hide from cruel hands. I learned to fear loud voices. I slept in silence, beneath abandoned cars or behind trash bins, dreaming of a warmth I had never known.
There were moments—small, fleeting moments—when I thought I had found love. A child once patted me and gave me a piece of bread. A shop owner let me nap on a box near his door for a week. But love… real love, the kind where someone looks at you and says, “You’re mine, and I will care for you”—that kind never came.
Now I am old. My fur, once smooth, is patchy and dull. My legs ache with every step. I can no longer run. My hearing fades in and out. And worst of all, my vision—the last thing I’ve always relied on—has grown dim. The world is a blur. I no longer see the birds clearly, or the leaves dancing in the wind. Just shadows and fading shapes.
But I remember colors. I remember the deep orange of a sunset I watched from a rooftop once. I remember the gentle blue of a woman’s coat, the one who left milk out for me on a snowy day. I remember green—the color of hope.
Sometimes, I sit by the sidewalk, hoping someone might notice me. I don’t meow loudly anymore. My voice has grown soft, like the wind. But I look up, and I try to smile the way only a cat can—with gentle blinks and quiet presence. I wish someone would kneel down and see more than just an old stray.
See me.
I am not asking for much. Not a palace. Not feasts. Just a small place to sleep. A name to answer to. A hand to nuzzle against. A human heart that chooses me—not because I’m cute, but because I’m worth loving.
Even now, when the nights feel longer and colder than ever before…
My eyes are fading, but I still hope for a day to truly be loved.
Because even the smallest heart holds onto hope. Even the weakest paw still reaches out in longing. And even a tired old cat like me still dreams of belonging somewhere, to someone, forever.
