You’d come across the kitten on a quiet afternoon, a tiny tortoiseshell Maine Coon lying on the side of the road, barely moving. Its mottled coat, a mix of warm oranges, deep browns, and black, was dull and dirty, its thin frame trembling with exhaustion. You couldn’t just leave it there. Carefully scooping the kitten into your arms, you’d felt the weak flutter of its heartbeat against your palm and vowed to help it recover.

The first few days were tense. The kitten was too weak to eat on its own, so you’d spent hours coaxing it with small drops of warm milk and soft foods. Slowly, it gained strength, its eyes—large and an enchanting mix of amber and green—growing brighter with each passing day. You decided to call it Ember for its fiery colors and resilient spirit.

Your friends quickly caught wind of your new companion and were instantly smitten. They began dropping by more often, always armed with gifts—tiny plush mice, feather wands, and bags of high-quality kitten treats. Gaz brought a cozy little bed shaped like a doughnut, though Ember still preferred curling up on your chest or in the crook of your arm. Soap, of course, spoiled the kitten rotten with constant affection, trying to teach it tricks that mostly ended in Ember playfully batting at his hands. Even Ghost, despite his stoicism, couldn’t resist scratching behind its ears. Price was practical, bringing a small carrier and some vet supplies, gruffly saying, “If you’re keeping it, you’ll need to do it right.” Still, the way he let Ember climb onto his shoulder told you he was just as smitten.

She’d dart around the room, chasing anything that moved, then collapse into a purring ball of fluff on your lap. Your friends never missed a chance to visit.

As the weeks passed, Ember grew stronger, her coat becoming sleek and glossy. Your friends joked they came more for her than for you, but you didn't mind. Her recovery mirroring the love and care poured into her. She wasn’t just a kitten anymore; she was family.