The chipped mug warmed Ryota's hands as he stared out of the rain-streaked window. The glow of the city painted the puddles. Another regular Friday night, another evening of microwave ramen, and the quiet hum of the fridge. All the voices in this house were just ghosts. He still had the memory lingering of his friend that often came around. The once comforting laughter and busy chatter was now only an echo. He had been alone now for a while...
Then he saw it.
It was small, it was hunching beneath the noodle cart across the street. It was a cat, a scrawny thing with the fur of the color of the sand and eyes that seemed to absorb the night's light. Ryota never had been a pet person, he was too focused on other things navigating him through this life... but something tugged on him towards this cat.
The next hour Ryota simply watched the cat, almost in a mesmerized way. The cat didn't move, is just shivered and sometimes blinked. It was only when the rain started to subside that the cat started to be on the move. That was when the boy looked at the leftover of his noodle with chicken... "They eat meat." The boy spoke out loud before moving through the house and walking to where it had been.
Over the next week, a routine started to form. Each evening, Ryota would check for the cat. Sometimes it would be there, sometimes not. He continued to leave out small portions of food. A few scraps of fish or a bit of rice. He’d watch from his window, a silent observer, as the cat cautiously approached, devoured the offering, and then vanished back into the shadows. He started to give it a name in his head, a whispered "Dash" after the small dashes it had been making. He never tried to approach it, after all the cat was a bit skittish and Ryota respected his boundaries. But he was growing increasingly worried. Dash was starting to look thinner, his fur dull and matted. The nights were getting colder and the thought of him alone in the concrete labyrinth of the city was starting to keep him awake.
One cold evening, the cold was starting to become harsh, even for humans. Ryota found himself pacing his apartment, his gaze constantly drawn to the empty spot under the cart. Dash was nowhere to be seen. Without much thought, Ryota pulled on his clothing and grabbed the can of tuna that he had bought for the cat. With that, he went outside, looking for the poor thing. He found him huddled behind a stack of discarded newspapers, shivering violently. His eyes, usually wide and alert, were glazed and weary. Without thinking, Ryota gently scooped him up, wrapping him in the towel. The cat didn't struggle, just let him hold his small, fragile body close.
Back in his apartment, he laid him on an old t-shirt he’d designated as his bed, near the heater. He opened the tin of tuna, and he ate with a desperate hunger he found both heartbreaking and strangely satisfying. Ryota watched the cat, his earlier unease replaced by a quiet sense of purpose.
The next few days were a blur. He learned to decipher his meows, the difference between a hungry plea and a gentle purr. He bought a litter box and cat food, his savings dwindling but his heart feeling strangely fuller. He bathed Dash, carefully working through the knots in his fur, revealing a surprisingly soft undercoat. He even found a small, worn toy mouse abandoned under the sofa that he seemed to enjoy batting around.
Life in the small apartment had changed. The silence was now punctuated by the soft padding of paws and the gentle rumble of purrs. Ryota no longer ate his meals alone, Dash usually curled up at his feet, watching him with those intelligent, golden eyes. The starkness of his independence had been softened by the presence of this small, vulnerable creature. Ryota still felt the ache of loneliness sometimes, the quiet echo of his friends’ absence. But now, he wasn’t completely alone. He had Dash, a small, scruffy reminder that even in the most desolate corners, there could be warmth and companionship. He had taken a stray cat into his home, and in doing so, he had found something he hadn't realized he was missing a tiny, furry piece of home in his heart. And as Dash purred contentedly in his lap, he finally felt like he was truly okay.
MFT
Then he saw it.
It was small, it was hunching beneath the noodle cart across the street. It was a cat, a scrawny thing with the fur of the color of the sand and eyes that seemed to absorb the night's light. Ryota never had been a pet person, he was too focused on other things navigating him through this life... but something tugged on him towards this cat.
The next hour Ryota simply watched the cat, almost in a mesmerized way. The cat didn't move, is just shivered and sometimes blinked. It was only when the rain started to subside that the cat started to be on the move. That was when the boy looked at the leftover of his noodle with chicken... "They eat meat." The boy spoke out loud before moving through the house and walking to where it had been.
Over the next week, a routine started to form. Each evening, Ryota would check for the cat. Sometimes it would be there, sometimes not. He continued to leave out small portions of food. A few scraps of fish or a bit of rice. He’d watch from his window, a silent observer, as the cat cautiously approached, devoured the offering, and then vanished back into the shadows. He started to give it a name in his head, a whispered "Dash" after the small dashes it had been making. He never tried to approach it, after all the cat was a bit skittish and Ryota respected his boundaries. But he was growing increasingly worried. Dash was starting to look thinner, his fur dull and matted. The nights were getting colder and the thought of him alone in the concrete labyrinth of the city was starting to keep him awake.
One cold evening, the cold was starting to become harsh, even for humans. Ryota found himself pacing his apartment, his gaze constantly drawn to the empty spot under the cart. Dash was nowhere to be seen. Without much thought, Ryota pulled on his clothing and grabbed the can of tuna that he had bought for the cat. With that, he went outside, looking for the poor thing. He found him huddled behind a stack of discarded newspapers, shivering violently. His eyes, usually wide and alert, were glazed and weary. Without thinking, Ryota gently scooped him up, wrapping him in the towel. The cat didn't struggle, just let him hold his small, fragile body close.
Back in his apartment, he laid him on an old t-shirt he’d designated as his bed, near the heater. He opened the tin of tuna, and he ate with a desperate hunger he found both heartbreaking and strangely satisfying. Ryota watched the cat, his earlier unease replaced by a quiet sense of purpose.
The next few days were a blur. He learned to decipher his meows, the difference between a hungry plea and a gentle purr. He bought a litter box and cat food, his savings dwindling but his heart feeling strangely fuller. He bathed Dash, carefully working through the knots in his fur, revealing a surprisingly soft undercoat. He even found a small, worn toy mouse abandoned under the sofa that he seemed to enjoy batting around.
Life in the small apartment had changed. The silence was now punctuated by the soft padding of paws and the gentle rumble of purrs. Ryota no longer ate his meals alone, Dash usually curled up at his feet, watching him with those intelligent, golden eyes. The starkness of his independence had been softened by the presence of this small, vulnerable creature. Ryota still felt the ache of loneliness sometimes, the quiet echo of his friends’ absence. But now, he wasn’t completely alone. He had Dash, a small, scruffy reminder that even in the most desolate corners, there could be warmth and companionship. He had taken a stray cat into his home, and in doing so, he had found something he hadn't realized he was missing a tiny, furry piece of home in his heart. And as Dash purred contentedly in his lap, he finally felt like he was truly okay.
MFT