The cold bit at my fingers as I set up my market stall. A small gray cat watched from the alley’s edge.
His eyes, wide and golden, held a quiet patience. He didn’t move closer, just sat, tail curled neatly around his paws.
Every day, four o’clock sharp, he was there. The market hummed with voices, the clatter of coins, the rustle of bags. He never flinched.
I sold scarves, mittens, small trinkets to folks passing by. The air grew sharper as autumn faded. The cat, always there, never begged. He just waited.
One day, I tossed him a scrap of meat. He ate with focus, careful not to nick my hand. I named him Pang. A simple name for a simple creature.
A Quiet Companion in the Market’s Noise
Pang became my shadow. Each afternoon, he sat near the stall, watching customers come and go. He didn’t fuss or demand.
He just waited, his fur neat as garlic cloves, glossy despite the dust of the streets. I’d slip him bits of meat when the crowd thinned. His teeth were gentle, his trust a small gift.
Some days, I was too busy to notice him right away. Pang didn’t mind. He’d curl up on a crate, eyes half-closed, content to be near.
When I offered water, he turned his nose away. Meat was all he wanted. I laughed quietly to myself, wondering what kind of life had taught him such stubborn tastes.
One evening, I was late setting up. Pang found me after two hours, his gaze sharp with something like reproach.
I offered meat, and his tail flicked, forgiving me. I started to look forward to his visits. The market felt empty without him.
A Nest for a Stray Who Wouldn’t Stay
Winter crept closer, the air biting harder. I worried about Pang. His thin frame seemed too fragile for the cold. I decided to build him a nest.
At home, I gathered scraps—old blankets, a cardboard box. The junkyard owner, a kind man with rough hands, gave me extra wood when I told him it was for a cat.
The nest was simple, just enough to keep Pang warm. I set it near the stall, tucked behind a crate. I sprinkled meat inside, hoping he’d stay.
Pang sniffed, ate two bites, then slipped out. His eyes said he liked the food but not the walls. He was a stray, used to open skies, not boxes. I didn’t push him.
I thought about taking him home. My small apartment could fit a cat. But when I reached for him, Pang slipped away, hiding in the shadows.
He wanted my food, my company, but not my roof. I respected that. Some hearts need freedom more than shelter.
Two Cats, One Stall, and a Growing Bond
One day, Pang brought a friend. A scruffy cat with an orange tail, just as quiet, just as careful. They sat together, sharing the meat I offered.
The new cat ate with the same focus, and I smiled, seeing Pang in her. I bought a toy—a stick with feathers—and they chased it, tumbling over each other like kittens.
The days grew colder, but Pang and his friend came faithfully. They’d eat, then rest on my car, their small bodies soaking up the engine’s fading warmth. I started carrying extra meat, unable to resist their soft eyes.
They trusted me now, letting my hand linger on their fur. Pang even purred once, a low hum that warmed me more than my scarf.
By spring, they were rounder, their coats shinier. They’d wait by my feet, not just for food but for the quiet moments between.
I’d talk to them softly, about the weather, the market, the ache in my knees. They listened, their eyes half-closed, as if they understood.
One morning, I called Pang’s name. He trotted over, rubbed against my leg, then ate. It wasn’t just the food anymore. It was me.
I was his person, and he was mine, in the way strays choose their people—quietly, on their terms.
This story was inspired by a quiet, touching video you can watch here. If it moved you, feel free to support the original creator.