Tommy was kicked out. Again. Third time in his short little life. Luck just wasnt on his side, was it?
Only a year old, and already booted from three homes. Well, not exactly bootedat first, he was passed around like a parcel at a Christmas party. Then? Then they just carried him a few streets away, dumped him in a wheelie bin, and bolted. Didnt even give him a chance to find his way back. Not that he wouldve bothered.
He knew. Saw it in the mans face the moment he scratched that brand-new leather sofasome posh thing, probably cost a fortune. The wife was gutted. And the husband? Well, he just nodded along, didnt he? Always did. So, scooping up the ginger tom, he marched him straight to the neighbours rubbish bin.
Tommy didnt even try to follow. No point. The verdict was clear in those eyes. Couldve at least said goodbye properlya pat on the head, maybe an apology. But no. Just tossed out like yesterdays takeaway.
With a sigh, he rummaged through the bin, nibbling at a cold chicken scrap before clambering out and plonking himself beside the green bin. The sun was setting, and he squinted up at it, soaking in the last bit of warmth.
Those were the final rays of summer, autumn, winterjust a little thaw before the frost set in again. And inside Tommy? That frost had already settled deep.
The night was brutal. Wind howled, ice bit at his fur, and with nowhere else to go, he burrowed into a pile of dead leaves, curling into a tight ball. At first, he shivered violently, but then then his fur stiffened, the shaking stopped, and somehow, it didnt feel so cold anymore. A quiet voice whispered in the back of his mind.
“Just curl up. Close your eyes. Sleep, sleep, sleep.”
Warmth spread through himnot the cruel, fleeting kind, but something soft and heavy, like a blanket dragging him under. *Why fight it?* Tomorrow would just be more cold, more hunger, more of the same. What was the point?
Streetlights flickered in the distance, and Tommy gave them one last glance. He used to watch them from his windowsill. Now, his eyes caught the glow one final time, flashing gold in the dark.
That little spark caught the attention of a ginger-haired girl walking home with her dad. She tugged his sleeve.
“Theres someone in the leaves,” she said.
“Dont be daft,” her dad muttered, shivering. “Lets get home.”
But she was already digging, fingers scrabbling until
“Dad!”
He sighed, trudging over. “What now?”
“Its him.” She lifted the stiff, frozen bundle.
“Leave it,” her dad said. “Its dead.”
“Hes *not*,” she insisted. “I saw a light in his eyes.”
“A *light*?” He rolled his eyes but crouched anyway, pressing a hand to the cats chest.
Tommy barely heard them. Sleep pulled at him, thick and sweet. *Just let go.*
Then
*”There! Did you see? His eyes!”*
With great effort, Tommy cracked one open. A small, freckled face stared back.
Her dad sighed, shrugged off his coat, and bundled the cat up. “Fine. But if he croaks, its your fault.”
Home was a blur of warm water, heated milk, and a girl whispering, *”Dont die, please dont die.”*
And slowly, the ice meltedfrom his fur, from his bones, from somewhere deep inside.
Tommy blinked up at her, baffled. This warmth wasnt from radiators. It was tiny, stubborn, and wrapped in a jumper three sizes too big.
Outside, someone lingered in the dark, watching the fifth-floor window glow.
“All I can do,” he murmured. “Not everyone sees the light. And even fewer keep it.”
But Tommy wasnt thinking about grand things like that. Cats dont. He just stared at the girlat the light in *her* eyesand decided maybe, just maybe, tomorrow wouldnt be so bad after all.
