09/16/2025
HE SAID HE WAS JUST “KEEPING HER WARM”—BUT IT MEANT SO MUCH MORE, I saw him sitting on the Blue Line, two seats from the back. His coat zipped all the way up, his worn-out shoes barely holding together. He looked like someone who had seen a lot—carrying the kind of tired that doesn’t come just from missing sleep, but from life itself.
But what really caught my eye wasn’t him—it was what he was holding.
In the crook of his arm lay a tiny kitten, probably no more than a few weeks old. She was curled up as if she’d always belonged there, safe and content. He held her gently, like she was made of something precious.
She was fast asleep, her little paws tucked beneath her chin, softly purring—even over the hum of the train.
Most passengers didn’t even notice. I sat across from him and asked quietly, “Is she yours?”
He looked down at her and gave the kind of smile that comes from somewhere deep.
“No. She just found me,” he said.
He explained how he had come across her three nights ago behind a bakery, soaking wet and cold, crying for help. He gave her the last bite of his sandwich and wrapped her in the only dry scarf he had.
“I thought I’d just give her one warm night,” he said softly. “But she stayed.”
I asked where he was taking her.
“Somewhere better,” he replied. “There’s a note on a bench at 6th and Maple. Someone said they’d help—if I brought her back safely.”
A note? That surprised me. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a folded napkin. Written in blue ink were the words:
“She answers to ‘Mina.’ Please don’t leave her. If you find her—bring her home.”
On the back was a phone number. But what moved me most was the signature at the bottom:
“Her little girl.”
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