Whiskers had been at the nursing home for as long as anyone could remember. The staff swore he’d just appeared one day, strolling in like he belonged.
He was picky about people, barely tolerating most of us. But with Mr. Delano? It was different.
Every morning, Whiskers would climb onto Mr. Delano’s lap, curling up as the old man stroked his fur with shaky hands. They had a routine — gentle pets, soft whispers, moments of quiet understanding. No one could explain why, but they were inseparable.
Then, one evening, Mr. Delano passed away in his sleep.
The next morning, we expected Whiskers to be by the window, waiting for him. Instead, we found him curled up on Mr. Delano’s empty bed, paws tucked under his chin, eyes half-closed. He didn’t move all day.
That night, as we were packing up Mr. Delano’s few belongings, one of the nurses gasped.
She had found an old photograph tucked inside his drawer.
It was a much younger Mr. Delano, smiling, holding a small black-and-white kitten in his arms.
On the back, scribbled in faded ink, were just four words:
“My boy, always waiting.”
I looked at Whiskers, still curled on the bed, and my breath caught in my throat.
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Could it really be…?
And then, without a sound, Whiskers stood up, stretched, and padded slowly toward the door. He paused, glancing back once — not at me, but at the empty bed.
The next morning, Whiskers was gone. No one saw him leave. The staff searched every hallway, every room, even the garden where he liked to nap. He had simply… vanished.
A week later, a letter arrived for the nursing home, addressed in neat, old-fashioned handwriting. It was from Mr. Delano’s daughter.
Inside was a short note and another photograph — this one of Mr. Delano, decades younger, sitting on the porch of a white farmhouse. On his lap was the same black-and-white cat from the first photo. The date in the corner read 1957.
Her letter was brief:
“When I was little, my father’s cat disappeared the night after his parents passed away. He always said the cat would find him again someday. I guess he was right.”
I folded the letter and set it beside the photo. Outside, the wind rattled the leaves, carrying a strange kind of peace through the hallways.
Some of the staff whispered that Whiskers had been waiting all those years to take one last walk with his friend. Others said it was impossible.
But I like to think that somewhere, on a quiet porch under the evening sun, a man and his cat were finally together again — and this time, they’d never have to part.
