13November2025 Diary
I tucked myself behind the bench in the park, curled into a trembling ball, and let the tears flow. I wept from fear, from the bitter cold, and from the crushing loneliness.
Snow had been falling for three days straight, thick and heavy as if it would never cease. Even now I can still hear the faint echo of my name, the taste of warm milk, and Grans gentle hands.
When I was a newborn, Gran discovered me tucked in a cardboard box behind the corner shop on Victoria Street. She hobbled over the low railings, slipped through the hedges, and lifted the box that emitted a soft, plaintive squeak.
Lord, whats happened to this little thing? Gran muttered, peering inside. Who could have left you here, little chap? What did you do to deserve this?
She slipped the frayed silk scarf from around her neck and wrapped it around the tiny, nameless kitten. At first she thought it might be a tricolour cat, but once home she realised the fluff was a male kitten small, but full of life.
Well then, you shall be Winston, she declared, and set about warming a pot of milk.
Thus Winston became a pampered house cat, a shadow that followed his owner everywhere. He guarded the house like a watchdog and trembled whenever Grans scent lingered in the air.
Eighteen months later disaster struck: a white van arrived, loading Gran away forever. She never returned. A neighbour kept feeding Winston for a while, but soon new relatives moved into the cottage. They cared little for a stray cat.
Never mind, they shrugged, and left Winston out in the frost.
The cold bit into his fur; the world outside was alien. Leaves rustled under his paws, snapping with every step, startling him. He bolted, not caring where he was running.
A tempting smell halted him the scent of a pie stall on the high street. Winstons stomach rumbled, and he edged closer, shy but hopeful.
Hungry, little fellow? the shopkeeper smiled. Come on, have a bite.
And so Winston survived on leftover meat pies, a sip of milk from a plastic cup, and nights spent in a cardboard box that once held chicken legs.
One morning the stall was carted away by a crane. Winston scrambled, frantic, trying to understand where the woman who had fed him had vanished.
He fled to the bushes behind a bench, curled into a small, shaking bundle, and wept againquietly, without a sound. The chill, the solitude, the uncertainty of what lay ahead weighed on him.
Sleep took him, and in his dream he was once more a proud, large cat perched on a high branch, next to a massive white bird that seemed both dove and human.
Winston, how did you get here? the bird asked, spreading its vast wings.
In the dream the cat recounted everythingGran, the stall, the hunger. The bird listened, then vanished.
Winston awoke to find a white fluff on his nose. He thought it was a feather, but it was only a snowflake, cold as ice, and more snow swirled around him.
He shivered, meowed, but no one answered; only the indifferent snow kept falling.
He endured by sleeping in the box, nibbling at snow, snatching bits of bread tossed to pigeons, dodging angry dogs, and growing ever thinner.
The snow continued its relentless descent, and memories of Grans warm hearth grew faint.
Then a bark sounded behind him. Winston scrambled up a tree, clinging to a high branch, and fell asleep again.
The same white bird appeared in his dream.
Hard times, Winston? it asked.
Too hard cold, hungry dogs he replied.
What would you wish for most?
To see Gran even once Winston whispered.
Then look, the bird said.
In an instant he saw her, alive, standing beside him.
My dear child! he mewed plaintively. How miserable I am without you
My love, Gran answered, Ive missed you so! Come with me, sweetheart
She reached out, and at that moment the bird nudged Winstons shoulder, sending him tumbling down.
Below the tree two women stood. One cradled a pram, the other was bright and cheerful.
Enid, careful! the woman with the baby exclaimed as Winston landed in the others arms.
You look!, laughed the other, My horoscope says today Ill have heavenly luck! I never thought it would be literal!
Winston opened his eyes slowly and murmured, Meow
Hello, my joy, smiled Enid. What shall we call you?
Meow, the cat replied.
My husband had a cat named Winston, said the woman with the baby, thoughtful.
Then lets call him Winston, Enid decided.
And Winston thought, Thats who I am, and let out another soft meow.
The two women walked together out of the parkEnid to feed her son, and Molly to take her new furry friend home.
I realised today that even when the world seems cold and empty, there are always hands ready to lift you up, hearts ready to welcome you, and a place where you belong again. The lesson I carry forward is simple: never lose hope, for kindness has a way of finding you when you need it most.
