Five years ago, my neighbor, Mrs. Vera, buried her husband Mitchell, a quiet war veteran who had once promised to protect her for the rest of their lives. They’d been inseparable, and though they’d never had children, their love had filled every room of their modest home. When Mitchell died, Vera was left alone—just her and the echo of old memories.
She often spoke of him, with a softness in her eyes that made it seem like he might walk in at any moment. They’d married just before the war, she told me, and she waited faithfully for his return. He came back alive—but not unchanged. He’d lost his left hand in the fighting. Still, he’d loved her fiercely, and she’d loved him right back.
Then, on the first anniversary of Mitchell’s death, something extraordinary happened.
That night, during a blizzard, Vera heard a faint meowing at her door. Surprised anyone—or anything—could be out in such weather, she opened it. There, sitting on her stoop, was a large black cat with piercing green eyes.
She let it in, offered it milk, which it refused, then watched as it strutted through her home like it belonged there. It hopped up on her bed, curled up on Mitchell’s pillow, and fell asleep.
Instead of shooing it out, Vera lay beside it.
In the morning, she got a better look. The cat was clean, well-fed, and didn’t seem like a stray. Black as night, proud and calm—but what caught her attention was this: the cat’s left front paw was missing its toes.
“Just like Mitchell,” she whispered.
As she said his name, the cat jumped onto her lap and began to purr.
She smiled, “Well, we should name you. Whiskers?”
The cat gave her a sharp, offended glare. Not a typical feline look—something else. Something human.
Shaken, she said, “Okay, not Whiskers. Timothy?”
The cat meowed loudly and began to claw the couch.
“Alright, alright,” Vera sighed. “No name for now. Just… Cat. But stop scratching the furniture, please.”
With what could only be described as a grumble, the cat leapt down and marched off to the spare room.
From that day forward, they lived together—Vera and the Cat.
When I visited, she would tell me wild stories. She swore the Cat healed her. She’d struggled with her heart ever since Mitchell’s passing, but when the pain hit, the Cat would curl on her chest and purr her back to comfort.
One afternoon, a local drunk named Victor knocked on her door, shouting and demanding money. Vera tried to calm him, but he became aggressive, insulting her and Mitchell’s memory. Suddenly, the Cat leapt at Victor with a growl. Victor tried to shove it off, but the Cat came back, claws out, fangs bared. Victor fled, muttering curses, leaving Vera shaken but unharmed.
The Cat simply flicked its tail and returned to his corner.
One day, Vera was scheduled to go into town for firewood assistance and asked me to escort her. I arrived early, but found her sitting on her bed, half-dressed and uneasy.
“I’m not going,” she told me softly.
“But why?” I asked, confused.
She hesitated. “You’ll think I’m mad. But the Cat spoke to me. In my dream. He called me Vera. No one’s called me that since Mitchell.”
I blinked. “The Cat… spoke?”
She nodded slowly. “With Mitchell’s voice. He said, ‘Don’t go, Vera. Stay home tomorrow. It’s not safe.’ And then he started singing our song—Mitchell’s favorite. The one he sang before he left for war.”
She was crying by then. “I asked, ‘Mitchell, is that you?’ And he said, ‘Who else could it be? I’ve come back to help you.’”
That day, I didn’t argue. We stayed home. And that very afternoon, the bus we were meant to take skidded off the road on ice. No fatalities, thank God, but many were injured. A coincidence?
A week later, firewood arrived—unasked.
And when Vera warned her niece Lucy to cancel a risky surgery, Lucy didn’t listen. She died on the operating table.
More than coincidence, I began to believe.
After that, Vera called him Mitchell. And he responded.
He stayed with her until the end. She passed away peacefully in her sleep at 94, after a long, full life.
For three days, Mitchell didn’t leave her coffin. He wouldn’t eat, wouldn’t sleep elsewhere. I saw him cry—actual tears falling from his eyes.
After the burial, I tried to take him in, but he kept escaping. Every day, I found him at Vera’s grave. I brought him food, blankets. He endured the harshest winter there, a fading shadow of the once-proud black cat.
Then, one day in spring, I found him curled up on Vera’s grave, still and cold.
He’d stayed. Just as he promised her all those years ago. He protected her in life—and kept watch over her in death.
Some say people are reincarnated into animals. I never paid much mind to such talk.
But I believe Mitchell returned. He came back to keep his vow.
And he kept it, until the very end.