Henry meticulously surveyed his desk. Usually, it was a chaotic mess, as people often say, a “creative disorder.” But today, he planned to leave work early. It was his birthday—one of those small but significant milestones.
Additionally, Henry had requested a week off to spend some relaxing time with his family by the lakes, and so he decided it was time to tidy up his workplace. “There we go, all sorted,” he thought. His eyes landed on a photo in the corner of the desk, sparking a gentle melancholy in his heart. It was more nostalgia than sadness—a longing for something precious that could never return. Enlarged versions of these photos hung in his room at his parents’ house and in the living room of his own apartment. He remembered that day vividly, even though several years had passed. And it wasn’t just because it was his birthday.
Henry and his brother were sitting on a bench outside their building. His older brother was dramatically recounting the plot of the latest action movie he’d seen at the cinema. So engrossed were they that they didn’t notice their father’s car arriving until he spoke up with a cheerful voice. “Hello, son. Happy birthday.” Their father beamed at Henry while pulling something out from under his jacket. “Here’s a little gift for now,” he said, revealing a small fluffy kitten. It was grey with white socks on its paws and looked around curiously.
Their mother emerged from the house carrying a blue sports bag, the one she used when their father went on business trips. “We need to go away for a while. But your main gift is still with me,” their father said, handing the kitten to Henry. “Give it some milk at home, and I’ll be back by the weekend. Then we can go shopping, and you can choose your present, okay? And maybe we’ll visit the zoo.” Their father embraced them, tousling their hair. “Will you be gone long?” their mother asked. “No, back by tomorrow evening,” he replied, taking the bag from her hands. “Hey, why don’t we take a photo to remember?” she suggested.
They had recently bought a popular compact camera, and their mother was keen to capture as many moments of their lives as possible. “I’m in a hurry,” their father hesitantly smiled. Indeed, his colleague, Uncle Tom, who was waiting in the car, signaled them with a honk and tapped his wristwatch with a grin. Their father waved him off, indicating he needed another minute. He placed the bag on the ground, picked up the kitten again, and Henry and his brother stood by his sides.
They all smiled at the camera, oblivious to the fact that the kitten would be Henry’s only gift. And the last one. Because his father never returned from that trip. As was later discovered, they were transporting a large sum of cash. In the economic chaos of those times, such transactions were not unusual, and someone tipped off some gangsters.
Henry’s mother later mentioned the investigator’s belief that the attackers hadn’t intended to kill them. They likely planned to fake an accident when the road was empty to take the money. But something went wrong. The collision was too severe, and their father’s car veered off the road, overturning and catching fire. Neither the informant nor the culprits were ever found, and a few years later, the case was quietly shelved. Every time she recalled those events, Henry’s mother would say, “I don’t know who those people were and I don’t want to. God will judge them. But those who could have helped and chose to run away to save themselves, I’ll never forgive.”
Henry and Uncle Tom were buried on the same day in closed coffins. Henry stood beside his weeping grandmother—his father’s mother—unable to comprehend that his father lay in that dark red velvet-covered wooden box. Perhaps that was why, for over a month, he hoped every doorbell ring was his father returning. Hopeful that all had been a bad dream, and his father would walk in, lively and smelling slightly of smoke and petrol. His father had keys but always rang the bell upon returning from business trips. Henry would be the first to greet him, and his father would smile and pull something from his bag, saying it was from the Easter Bunny. His brother, in the teasing way of older siblings, laughed, “Where would bunnies find gifts? There are no shops in the forest.” But Henry didn’t pay attention, feeling immensely proud that the forest creatures knew about him and never forgot him.
But his father never returned, and over time, Henry imagined a story—a fantasy where a wicked wizard had turned his father into a grey cat. The tale in his mind became so elaborate that he almost believed it. Even now, Henry couldn’t say whether it was a defense mechanism or a child’s naive faith in miracles. But back then, those fantasies probably helped him survive the piercing pain of loss. Much later, Henry and his brother, reminiscing about those distant days, realized they had felt a peculiar sensation of their father’s soul somehow residing in that grey kitten. Throughout the kitten’s life with them, they sensed their father’s invisible presence. Yet, as children, they never shared these thoughts, not even with each other. They named the kitten Butch, after a Disney character they used to watch on TV every Sunday.
Henry and his brother, and even their mother, grew very fond of Butch. Without exaggeration, he became a mascot and guardian for their family. He would accompany them to and from school, then college, and their mother from work. If anyone fell ill, Butch would stay close, purring soothingly, lying on the area that hurt, as if trying to warm it. He would stay until they recovered. Butch spent many long years with the family. Still, time is relentless, and one summer evening, he quietly passed away.
By then, Henry’s older brother was married and lived on his own. When he heard about their beloved pet’s death, he came immediately. Their family all gathered to bid farewell to Butch. How could they not? He was a living memory of their father. Their father was forever etched in their minds as he was on that last day: cheerful, in a bit of a hurry, with a kitten in his arms. Henry thought their mother felt similarly, as on their father’s memorial, besides his full-length photograph, at her request, an artist had drawn a deserted road and a car driving into the setting sun.
They buried Butch at the edge of town in what was then a young pine forest. Although years had passed and barely a mound remained where he lay, Henry remembered the spot well, and every time he drove past, he would turn off to stand for a few minutes, paying homage to their loyal companion.
Undoubtedly a family member, the loss of whom marked the end of an era in his life—a time of childhood and youth. After looking at the photograph once more and offering a sad smile to the memories that poured over him, Henry picked up his laptop, wiped his moist eyes with the back of his hand, and left his office.
He was expected at home. Everyone had gathered—his mother, brother with his family, and a few close friends. Once everyone was assembled in the living room, his brother and nephews ceremoniously presented him with a box. Applause filled the room as the nephews, with mischievous grins, teased him to guess its contents.
Family and friends knew of Henry’s passion for computer games, so he began guessing what it might be. “A high-end joystick, a racing wheel? Did I get it?” His nephews laughed and shook their heads before opening the box. Henry looked inside and fell onto the chair someone had thoughtfully moved near him. Childhood memories rushed through his mind, and tears welled up, unbidden. But he felt no shame in them. Inside the box sat a kitten, just like the one his father had once given him. Grey, fluffy, with white socks on its paws. Memories washed over him—his father, Butch… As a child, Henry spent hours talking to Butch, sharing his secrets, joys, and sorrows. He had the strong sense he was conversing with his living father, at least it felt like he was listening.
Henry secretly held onto this belief even into adulthood. The cat looked at him with an intelligent, almost human gaze, gently purring in comfort.
Now, his teenage daughter, upon returning from school, heads straight to the kitchen, from which her disapproving voice soon echoes. “Why are Butchy’s bowls empty?! Come on, little one. I’ll feed you now.” The cheeky cat, having just finished his meal and washed it down with fresh milk, glances cunningly at Henry and trots to the kitchen, responding to his little owner’s call.
