Alright, so here’s how it goes…
I don’t have long left… But you came.
James was on his fourth cigarette in a row, but he couldn’t taste the tobacco or even smell the smoke. He just sat there on the old bench by the front steps, rolling the stub between his fingers, staring stubbornly at the fourth-floor window. That’s where Lucy lived.
“What the hell am I even doing here?” he muttered, flicking the butt toward the overflowing bin.
Of course, he missed. With a sigh, he got up, grudgingly picked up all four stubs, and shoved them deep into the bin. Then he slumped back on the bench, thought about lighting his last cigarette—but didn’t. He might need it later… if he even felt like it.
To distract himself, he scanned the street. His eyes landed on four cats sitting by the building, necks stretched, all staring up at that same fourth-floor window.
“Lucy would’ve dragged every one of ‘em inside by now,” James chuckled to himself. He knew her too well. How many times had she brought home half-dead strays—nursing them, feeding them, thawing the ice in their eyes? She loved animals… maybe more than people. And sometimes, that stung. Not for himself. For the whole damn human race. Though, after thirty years, he’d figured out—some folks really aren’t worth loving. Himself included.
Remembering how he’d treated Lucy was painful. He’d walked out on her when she needed him most. Found out she couldn’t have kids, and he bolted. Dreams of a son, fishing trips, first days at school… all of it had felt more important than love. Or it seemed that way back then. He’d been so sure he was doing the right thing, that it was better for both of them. Now? Now he knew he’d just been a coward.
He closed his eyes. Breathed. Opened them again. The cats were still there. Waiting. Just like him.
He had to decide—was he going up there or not? After all these years. After everything.
Her message echoed in his head: *”Forgive me for everything. Just wanted to see you one last time…”* Not a word about being ill. Just that.
Then a girl approached him—young, maybe twenty.
“Excuse me, do you have the time? My phone’s dead.”
“Ten to five,” James said.
“You’re not David, are you? I’m supposed to meet someone here…”
“No. James.”
“Oh… Are you waiting for someone too?”
He smirked but didn’t answer. The girl lingered awkwardly before walking off, glancing back.
James stood. *”Might as well go up, now I’m here.”* Slowly, he headed inside, climbed the stairs, pressed the buzzer.
The door opened to a young woman—barely more than a girl.
“You must be James? Come in. Lucy said you might come.”
“Who are you?”
“Emma. I live next door. I help her out. Right, I’m off—she’s got my number if she needs anything.”
Emma slipped away, and he… he just stood there. This was the flat where he and Lucy had started their life together. And now it was where everything had ended. Was it ever really a home, or just a starting point? He didn’t know.
“James, you stuck out there?” Lucy’s voice from the bedroom. “Come in.”
He toed off his shoes, ran a hand through his hair in the mirror, stepped inside.
“Hey, Luce,” he said, voice shaking.
“Hey… Knew it was you straight away. Don’t exactly get many visitors these days.”
“Nobody at all?”
“Nobody. Sit down—take the chair by the window.” She gestured weakly. “Stay with me a bit. Wanna look at you one last time.”
She tried to sit up—winced, gave up.
“Need a hand?”
“Don’t… Alright, fine. Help.”
He moved closer, caught the sharp smell of medicine, slid an arm behind her.
“Thanks,” Lucy smiled. “Better.”
“Are you… seriously ill?”
“No, James. I’m not ill. I’m dying. Just… dying.”
He froze. She said it so calmly. Like she was talking about the weather.
“I don’t—you never said anything…”
“Didn’t want to. Just… wanted to see you. Wanted to say… not a single day’s gone by in thirty years I haven’t thought of you.”
She was speaking fast, like she was running out of time. He listened, something crumbling inside him.
“I wanted to say sorry… For not being able to give you kids. I know you dreamed of it… But if I could live it all again—I’d choose you. Every time.”
James swallowed hard, fighting tears. Tried to smile—couldn’t.
“It’s me who should be sorry… for everything.”
“No, you did what you thought was right. But y’know what? I never had anyone else. Never forgot you. Not once.”
He stood, grabbed the medical papers from the bedside table. Scanned them, barely breathing: *diagnosis, metastases, chemo, no response…*
“Luce, there’s got to be options… surgery…”
“Small chance. And living? Don’t much fancy it. Not without you.”
And then he got it. Realised she’d loved him all this time. Realised he’d never stopped either. Which meant he couldn’t just walk away again.
He left the flat. Outside, the cats were still waiting. Staring at him like, *”Well?*”
He scooped them up. All four. Went back inside.
“Why’d you bring them in?” Lucy frowned.
“Gonna cure you,” he grinned. “Too soon for you to go.”
The cats instantly curled up on her bed, purring. And he… he leaned down and kissed her. Like he never had before.
She cried. Happy tears.
The treatment was rough. Brutal. But the doctors said, *”Will to live matters. So does someone fighting with you.”*
And now Lucy had both.
She pulled through. Beat it. Lived years more—with James, with the cats, with love. The real kind.
Sounds like a fairy tale, doesn’t it? But it happened.
Because real love—and cats—really do work miracles.
