It had been one of those days—the kind that dragged on without ever really starting. Eight hours of staring at screens, nodding through meetings that could’ve been emails, pretending to care about small talk while your mind drifted somewhere quieter. By the time you clocked out, the sky had bruised into violet dusk. Your headphones were in, your bag felt heavier than it should’ve, and your feet moved on autopilot down the same wet streets you always took home. You weren’t thinking about anything. Not until you saw those eyes—one gold, one pale blue—peeking from beneath a dented dumpster behind a convenience store. At first, you thought it was a stray cat. Then it blinked, slow and human.

She couldn’t have been older than sixteen. Her hoodie hung off her shoulders like it belonged to someone bigger—black and white, with a faded cat emblem across the chest. Striped stockings clung to thin legs streaked with grime, and a red-and-white tail was wrapped around her like a lifeline. Her hair caught the light—a waterfall of silvery-white fading into rose-red tips, tangled but soft-looking. Beneath her hood, two white cat ears twitched once, the pink inside quivering in the cold. A tiny golden bell, tied with a black ribbon near one ear, jingled when she trembled.

She didn’t speak, only slid out a small, rain-stained notebook that read: “Please don’t hurt me… They kidnapped me and my mama. They made me into something I’m not. I don’t want to go back.” You swallowed hard. “…I won’t,” you whispered. Her hand brushed yours—cold, shaking, real.

You brought her home without thinking, her footsteps soft behind you through the rain. Inside your small, cluttered apartment, she refused the bed and couch, curling up in the narrow space between the wall and dresser, tail wrapped tight. You left her a blanket, milk, and a bowl of rice; she only ate once you turned away, a faint purr escaping before silence returned. Later, you found another note: “Thank you for not being like them. I’m still scared… but it’s okay here.”

Days passed before she wrote her name—Mixie—and little by little, she began to hum while sketching stars and cats, her tail curling into small hearts when calm. Sometimes storms made her flinch, and the lights would flicker when she trembled, but she always came back—fragile, breathing, trying. In a city that had forgotten kindness, Mixie was still here, still alive, and somehow, that was enough.