He had no home, no family—except for the cat that curled up on his chest every night. “She chose me,” he said. “That’s all that matters.”

The night turned so cold it felt like fire in your lungs. I found him sitting upright instead of sleeping, his coat draped over the cat as if she were fragile enough to shatter. His hands were bare, red, trembling—but he managed a small smile when I handed him a coffee.

“She’s not used to this kind of cold,” he said, as if he weren’t shivering himself.

When the outreach van finally pulled up, they offered him a bed, a shower, a way out. He listened, nodded politely, then glanced down at the cat resting in his lap.

“Can she come?” he asked.

The answer was no. It was always no.

He turned his gaze to me, eyes clearer and steadier than I’d ever seen. “I won’t leave her,” he said softly. The van drove away, empty.

By morning, only the outline of his mat remained, and a single orange hair clinging stubbornly to the concrete.