Linda clicked the lock shut and exhaled with relief. Two days off ahead—no queues, no weighing produce, no loading or unloading.
“Linda, love, are you working tomorrow?” a familiar voice came from behind.
She didn’t even need to turn—she already knew who it was. Mr. Smith. Always at the wrong moment.
“Tomorrow’s Sunday,” she snapped without looking back. “Day off.”
“Ah. Right. No matter, I’ll come Monday then.”
Linda finally turned. The old man stood there with a worn-out shopping bag, in a faded jacket, looking at her with a kind of lost hope. As if he’d been counting on something.
“He’ll waste half an hour counting every penny again,” she thought.
“Come Monday,” she said, and walked toward her flat.
He always did this—showed up right before closing, picked two or three cheap items, then at the till fumbled in his wallet, sorted coins. The queue would build, people sighing, but he seemed not to notice. So slow. It just got on her nerves.
Sunday morning, passing the shop, Linda stopped dead.
At the door sat a cat. Just a stray tabby, scruffy, thin as a rake. But here was the strange thing—it wasn’t just sitting. It dashed from door to window, clawed at the threshold, peered through the crack, meowing. Such a pitiful, desperate sound.
“Shoo! Get away!” Linda waved her hand.
The cat didn’t budge. Just stared at the door.
“Stray,” Linda muttered, and moved on.
Monday, Linda approached the shop with a heavy heart. The cat hadn’t left. It lay curled by the door, exhausted.
The key turned in the lock. The door swung open.
And then Linda heard it. A faint, barely audible squeak. Somewhere in the corner, behind the shelves.
She stepped inside, peered closer—and her heart dropped.
A kitten.
Tiny, blind, helpless. Lying among cardboard boxes, whimpering, its little paws twitching.
The cat dashed in after Linda, leaped to the kitten, began licking it, purring.
“Oh God,” Linda whispered. “So you were trying to get back to him.”
Linda stood over the cardboard box, unsure what to do. The cat settled beside the kitten, licking it, purring—calm for the first time in a day.
And one thought echoed in Linda’s head: “Can’t keep animals in the shop. Where am I supposed to put them?”
“Listen, you’ve done it now,” she murmured aloud. “How did you even get in? When?”
The cat only pressed closer to the kitten.
Linda remembered: Friday evening, when she was closing, there’d been a crowd of shoppers. Rushing, chaos. Must have slipped in then, unnoticed. Given birth during the night, when the shop stood empty.
And all Sunday she’d been frantic outside, trying to get back in.
“Alright,” Linda exhaled. “We’ll figure something out.”
She poured water for the cat into a plastic cup, tore off a piece of boiled ham from her sandwich. The cat drank greedily, hastily, as if afraid it would be taken away.
Then Linda opened the shop for customers.
First in was a neighbour, Aunt Betty. She saw the cat and kitten and threw up her hands:
“Oh, Linda love! Where from?”
“Well…” Linda waved a hand. “Got in somehow. Listen, Betty, could you take them? Your grandkids love animals, don’t they?”
Aunt Betty wrinkled her nose:
“We’ve already got a cat. Old, nasty. He’d kill these. No, no, sorry.”
Next came Uncle Mike the plumber. He also refused:
“The wife won’t have it. She sneezes at fur.”
Then a young mother came in with a child. The little boy even reached for the kitten, but his mother pulled him back:
“Don’t touch! It’s dirty! Carries diseases. Come on.”
Linda stood behind the counter, feeling something tighten inside. Each refusal struck her chest like a dull thud.
“Is no one going to take them?”
By lunch she’d lost hope.
Around three in the afternoon the door swung open, and Mr. Smith walked in.
Same as always—slow, cautious. His shopping bag in hand. He greeted quietly, nodded.
Linda didn’t even get to answer—he stopped at the entrance, crouched down beside the box.
“Oh,” he said softly. “What have we here?”
The cat lifted its head, eyed him warily.
Mr. Smith slowly reached out a hand, stroked the cat’s head. It closed its eyes, began to purr.
“Linda,” he turned to the shop assistant. “What’s going to happen to them?”
Linda sighed:
“I don’t know, Mr. Smith. Can’t keep them here. And nobody wants to take them.”
“I see.”
He paused, then stroked the cat again. The kitten squeaked faintly, stirred.
“Could I,” he began, then faltered. “Could I take them?”
Linda froze. She stared at the old man, not believing her ears.
“You?” she repeated. “Seriously?”
“Well, yes.” He smiled shyly. “It’s just me at home—gets a bit lonely. They’d be company. I don’t know how to look after them, mind. But I’ll learn. I’ll look it up online.”
Linda suddenly felt a lump in her throat. This slow old man, whom she’d rushed so many times, hurried along, got annoyed with.
He was the only one who hadn’t walked past.
“Mr. Smith,” she managed. “Thank you. Really. Thank you.”
He waved his hands:
“Oh, don’t. It’s my pleasure. The place is empty. Wife passed three years ago. No children. That’s why I come here every day—to have a chat with someone.”
Linda felt ashamed. So ashamed she wanted the ground to swallow her up.
She’d always been irritated he was slow. That he held up the queue.
But he was just lonely.
Mr. Smith carefully lifted the box with the cat and kitten. Held the bottom steady. The cat looked at him warily but didn’t resist. As if it understood—this man wouldn’t hurt them.
“Only thing is,” he said thoughtfully, “not sure how to get them home. Box is big, awkward. They’ll slide about.”
“Wait,” Linda dashed to the stockroom and returned with a sturdy smaller cardboard box. “Here, this is better. It’s got handles.”
She herself transferred the cat and kitten, lined the bottom with a soft cloth. Her hands trembled. She didn’t know why—nerves or shame gnawing deeper.
“Linda, maybe you could advise me,” Mr. Smith smiled uncertainly. “What should I buy them? Food, I suppose? A bowl?”
Linda suddenly saw clearly: the old man was lost. He’d taken on the responsibility, but had no idea what to do next. And still he’d taken them. Because he couldn’t walk past.
“Hang on,” she said firmly. “Right now.”
She walked along the shelves, gathering everything needed: a tin of meat for the cat, a bag of dry food, two plastic bowls, a pack of cat litter.
“Here,” she handed the bag to Mr. Smith.
“Oh, no. I’ll pay.”
“No need,” Linda cut him off. “From me. Just because.”
He wanted to argue, but she looked so stern he just nodded:
“Thank you. Thank you very much.”
Mr. Smith picked up the box and the bag, headed for the door. At the threshold he turned:
“Linda, do you think I should take them to the vet?”
“Yes,” she nodded. “Go tomorrow. Get them checked over.”
“Right. I will.”
He stepped out. The door closed with a soft chime.
Linda was alone.
The shop was quiet. Empty. Only a battered cardboard box lay on the floor in the corner—the one the kitten had been in.
She walked over, picked it up, meant to throw it away. But she couldn’t. She sat down on the floor, pressed the box to her chest, and cried.
Tears rolled down her cheeks, dripped onto the cardboard.
She remembered how she’d been annoyed at Mr. Smith. How she’d hurried him. How she’d sighed when he entered the shop. How she’d thought: “Not him again. Counting his pennies again.”
But look what he turned out to be.
Without hesitation, he took the cat and kitten. Even though he barely scraped by—you could tell from his clothes, from the way he counted loose change in his wallet.
But he didn’t walk past.
“God,” Linda thought, “what a fool I am. How cold.”
She wiped her tears with her palm, got up from the floor. Tossed the box into the bin. Went back behind the counter.
Customers trickled in.
A normal workday.
But something inside Linda had shifted. She looked at customers differently now. Not just as a queue to serve quickly. But as people, each with their own story. And you never know what’s in someone’s heart.
Tomorrow she’d definitely ask Mr. Smith how the cat and kitten were. How they were settling. If they needed help.
And she’d never rush him again.
Two days passed.
Linda kept waiting for Mr. Smith. Glanced at the door, listened for footsteps in the corridor. But he didn’t come.
And her worry grew. “What if something’s happened? What if he’s ill? Or the cat?”
On the third day she couldn’t stand it.
She asked the neighbours for his address. Turned out he lived in the next block, third floor.
Linda bought a bag of apples, a packet of biscuits—just for appearances, so she wouldn’t arrive empty-handed—and after work went to his flat.
The door didn’t open for a while. Then came shuffling footsteps, and Mr. Smith appeared on the threshold. Surprised, bewildered.
“Linda? You… come in?”
“Just thought I’d pop by,” she held out the bag. “See how you’re doing. How are the cat and kitten?”
The old man’s face lit up with a smile. So warm, so genuine, it eased Linda’s heart.
“Come in, come in!” He stepped aside. “They’re settled beautifully!”
The flat was small, modest. Old furniture, worn carpet. But clean, cosy.
On the windowsill, on a folded blanket, the cat dozed. Beside her the kitten burrowed—stronger now, fluffy.
“There they are,” Mr. Smith said proudly. “I’ve named her Smudge. And him Pip. Because he’s so quiet.”
Linda approached, gently stroked Smudge. The cat opened one eye, purred, and went back to sleep.
“They’re beautiful,” Linda said softly.
“They are.” Mr. Smith beamed. “You know, I took them to the vet. Everything’s fine.”
He talked and talked—about how Smudge hid under the sofa the first night, dragging the kitten with her, then got used to it, now greets him at the door when he comes back.
As she left, Linda paused at the threshold:
“Mr. Smith, do come to the shop. I’ll be waiting.”
He nodded:
“I will.”
And added quietly:
“Thank you, Linda. For everything.”
“Thank you,” she replied. “You’re a real person.”
The next day Mr. Smith came to the shop again. Same as always—slow, with his shopping bag.
But this time Linda greeted him with a smile. She brought a stool from the back room, set it beside the counter:
“Take a seat, Mr. Smith. No rush. I’m not in a hurry.”
He nodded gratefully. Sat down. Began choosing his groceries unhurriedly.
And for the first time, Linda didn’t hurry the old man.
