tortoiseshell cat
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She wasn’t waiting to be rescued. She wasn’t crying for someone to take her home. She smelled like warm blankets, full food bowls, and windowsills worn smooth by afternoon naps. A tortoiseshell shadow beneath a streetlight, wearing the confidence of a cat who knows exactly where she belongs. Still… she stopped. Long enough to lean…
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I didn’t leave the house to find beauty. I left because two tiny girls were crying hard enough to shake the walls, and at two in the morning the only thing I had left was a stroller and hope. The streets were empty. The trees whispered overhead. The world belonged to insomniacs, streetlights, and mothers…
Between Bruises and Blooms 