Scara the cat

Wet cardboard, soaked to a grey mush, merges with the mud in the cold rain. In his corner is a tiny lump of fur, barely visible among the shadows. A kitten. Its sides barely rise, and its dull eyes, covered with a film of fatigue, unsuccessfully search the emptiness for at least a drop of warmth. A hoarse cry escapes from its dry throat. "Meow..." is so quiet that even the sound of raindrops hitting the sidewalk drowns it out. There is indifference all around. Passers-by hurry, turning up their collars, puddles reflect only wet silhouettes, walking away. Even the lanterns, which usually light cozy circles of light, today only emphasize his loneliness: a yellow glow slides along wet fur, but does not warm. He curls up into a ball, tucking his paws in as if trying to recapture the warmth he never had. The rain washes away the last smells of milk and home. There remains only darkness, and the weakening beat of the heart, repeating: “No one will come...”

he just wants to be loved…