I found him one autumn morning, hiding under a bench in the park below my home. He was so skinny his ribs almost mapped themselves along his sides. Trembling, starving, with those big round eyes that said everything without a sound. He didn’t meow, he didn’t move. He just looked at me. And I crouched down, held out my hand… and he licked it.

I brought him home in my scarf. I still remember his tiny head tucked against my chest the whole way back. Since then, this house has never been the same. It came alive. It became “ours.”

Now it’s our ritual. Quiet mornings on the terrace — him stretched out in the sun, me with my tea and a good book. He always positions himself the same way: one paw on the table, the other hanging in the air, and his head… of course, on my novel. As if to say, “Enough reading, look at me now.” Sometimes he purrs in his sleep. Sometimes he dreams and his whiskers twitch.

This cat isn’t just a pet. He’s become my inner clock. He teaches me to slow down, to savor the moment, to appreciate the silence. He’s taught me to see beauty in the routine, to find peace in the simple things. Before him, I was always rushing. Since him, I sit down, breathe, look at flowers. I live.

He knows my moods, my silences, my joys. He senses when my heart is heavy and lies down on my chest as if to lighten the load. He doesn’t speak, but he understands everything.

This little creature, abandoned and invisible to the world, has become everything to me. He’s my confidant, my refuge, my ray of sunshine. So today, watching him sleep there in that pose both silly and endearing, I tell myself that love is not something you look for. It finds you — sometimes when you least expect it.

And since that day, I know I’m no longer alone. Because he’s here. My cat. My little joy. My life.