One day I heard a cat crying outside my door. At first I thought it would stop any second—but it didn’t. So I opened up.
In the hallway was a tiny kitten, completely exhausted, with big eyes that didn’t demand anything—only begged. I put some food down, and she threw herself at it like she hadn’t eaten in days. Not normal hunger—more like pure fear.
After that, she suddenly came alive: tail up, little sprints up and down the stairs, like she needed to prove she was still here. I found a cardboard box for her to sleep in, placed food next to it, and let her choose.
With each day she grew braver. At some point she stood right at my doorstep, unsure between outside and inside. And without realizing it, she’d already made her way into my heart.
I took her in and went to the vet with her: nothing contagious, but worms and a dirty little nose—easily treated. About two months old, too small because she’d been hungry too often. I named her Zimt.
Later I brought her home. Donny already lived there. First there was distance, then curiosity, then careful approaches—until they finally became a team. Today Zimt has full bowls, a safe place, and a friend by her side.
Sometimes it isn’t a big sign. Sometimes it’s just a soft meow at the door.
