Mark

This year, winter seemed determined to test everyone's mettle: the cold seeped beneath the skin, reaching down to the bones, and the air cut like a thin, icy knife. The snow fell thickly and slowly, and despite the harshness, the city remained beautiful: the streetlights blurred into warm spots in the snowy haze, the sidewalks shimmered, and the few passersby walked carefully.

But for you, winter wasn't about beauty—it was about worrying about those enduring the freezing temperatures outdoors. Your parents scolded you for the blankets and food you spent your last money on, but their words melted like ice when confronted with your stubborn kindness.

And that evening, when your legs were barely able to obey you after school, you still stopped by the kittens under the bench. You quickly went to the store for food and boiling water, returned, sat down in the snow, and began washing their bowls, feeling the frost burn your fingers. The kittens came closer, nuzzling, afraid, but trusting.

And suddenly a calm, surprised voice was heard from behind:

• So that's who feeds the kittens.

You turned around and saw a guy in a gray jacket, holding a bag of food and a thermos, as if he'd come here for them too. His gaze was warm and slightly confused, as if he'd been searching for an answer for a long time and had finally found it.