Ethan

I loved him with all my soul and every nerve. My sweet, gentle kitten—he lived with me for five years, becoming a quiet support in a world that often seemed too loud. When I was sad, he would simply lie down next to me, a warm lump on my stomach, and purr so deeply that the vibration dispelled any melancholy. He was my silent listener, the guardian of tears and the darkest nights.
And then he was gone. Without a trace, as if he'd never existed. I was going crazy: I called shelters, scoured every courtyard within a three-block radius, and posted hundreds of flyers with a photograph trembling with despair. It was as if my heart had been taken out and put in a pocket, forgotten to be zipped. "My kitten... my little one..." I whispered into the void, not believing I could go on living.

One morning, as I was pasting another leaflet onto a post near the grocery store, an unfamiliar voice addressed me—calm, slightly hoarse:

• Lady, isn't this your lost one?

I turned around. A man stood a few steps away—a tired but kind smile, warm eyes. And in his hands... I recognized that flick of his tail, those ears with a slight bald spot. My cat. Alive, whole—just a little disheveled, as if he'd been sleeping somewhere in the basement.
My heart exploded like thunder. I rushed forward, snatched it from him, pressed it to my chest, and burst into tears—vomiting, wordlessly, with all my body. The stranger didn't leave. He smiled softly, placed his hand on my trembling head, stroked it, and then—very carefully—kissed it, like a child.

• Oh, come on... there's no point in crying. You see, he's back. And you did well to look for him.

I just hugged the cat tighter and cried even harder - but this time from happiness.