The first time I saw him, it was just past midnight outside the 24-hour laundromat.
He was curled up on a ripped camping mat like it was the softest bed in the world, the dim neon sign flickering above him.
On his chest lay a small orange cat, her fur patchy, one ear half-gone. She was draped over him like she belonged there — her rise and fall perfectly in sync with his breathing.
His shoes were held together with duct tape. A trash bag sat beside him in place of a backpack. You could see life had weathered him in ways most of us couldn’t imagine.
I started leaving food from the café where I worked the night shift — an extra muffin, a cup of soup, once even a leftover grilled cheese from a missed pickup.
He never asked. Always thanked me. And always made sure the cat ate first.
One night, I finally sat down beside him and asked her name.
“Hazel,” he said, gently stroking the ragged patch behind her ear.
“She chose me,” he added softly, eyes on her, not me. “That’s all that matters.”
Over time, I learned pieces of his story — how his brother stopped answering his calls, how his mother had passed three winters ago, how he’d tried shelters but Hazel wasn’t allowed in.
“So I chose the cold,” he said simply. “Because without her… there’s nothing to come in for.”
And then, last week, they were gone.
Three nights in a row — no Hazel, no sleeping bag, no trace of them except the bare concrete where they’d always been.
I asked around. A few people mumbled about a city crew clearing the area. No one knew where he went. No one had seen the cat.
Until this morning.
On my walk to work, I saw a flash of orange at the bus stop.
It was Hazel. Alone.
She looked right at me… like she’d been waiting.
I knelt down slowly, holding out my hand. Hazel approached without hesitation, her little body trembling. That’s when I saw it — a scrap of paper tied loosely around her collar with frayed string.
With shaking fingers, I untied it and unfolded the note.
It read:
If you’re reading this, I couldn’t stay. Someone took me in, but Hazel ran away to find you. Please take care of her. She’ll take care of you too.
The handwriting was uneven, almost desperate. And at the bottom, in smaller letters:
I’ll come back for her when I can.
Hazel pressed her head into my palm, purring faintly. She smelled faintly of cold rain and dust.
I scooped her up, feeling her fragile weight against me. As I carried her toward the café, I couldn’t stop wondering — Where had he gone? And who, exactly, was he running from?
Something told me… this wasn’t the end of the story.
I took Hazel home that night.
She settled on my couch as though she’d always been there, curling into a ball with her paws tucked neatly under her chin. I set out a dish of tuna, but she barely touched it before drifting off into a deep sleep.
For the next week, she became my shadow — following me from room to room, watching every door as if expecting him to walk in at any moment. Sometimes, in the middle of the night, she’d sit by the front window, tail flicking slowly, eyes fixed on the street.
I couldn’t stop thinking about the note. The handwriting lingered in my mind, especially the words I couldn’t stay. What did that mean? Couldn’t stay where? And why leave Hazel with a stranger?
On the fourth day, I decided to try and find him.
I started with the shelters, but no one had seen him. Then the food pantry, the park benches, the underpass where people sometimes slept — nothing. It was as if the city had swallowed him whole.
That’s when an older man at the bus stop spoke up.
“You’re looking for the guy with the orange cat, right?” he asked, eyes narrowing.
I nodded.
“Yeah… I saw him about a week ago. Cops were talking to him. He looked scared. Then a black car pulled up, and he left with them. Didn’t look like he had much of a choice.”
A black car.
It was such a strange detail, but it stuck with me. Who picks up a homeless man in a black car? And why would he go if he didn’t want to?
That night, Hazel refused to eat. She just sat by the window again, ears twitching at every sound outside. I knelt beside her, stroking her fur, when I felt something odd beneath my fingers — a hard lump in her collar lining.
I carefully pulled at the stitching and found… a tiny USB drive, no bigger than my thumbnail.
My hands went cold.
This wasn’t just a cat he’d left behind. Hazel was carrying something. Something important.
And suddenly, I had the sinking feeling…
Whatever had happened to him, it wasn’t random.
