Whiskers had always been something of a legend at Rosewood Manor, the nursing home where I worked. No one knew where he came from. One day, he simply walked through the front doors, tail held high, as if he owned the place. He tolerated most of us only because we fed him—but from the moment he arrived, he chose Mr. Delano as his own.
Every morning, without fail, Whiskers would pad down the hallway, winding past wheelchairs and potted plants, and leap gently into Mr. Delano’s lap. There they’d sit—an old man and a black-and-white cat, wrapped in a hush of shared solitude. Mr. Delano would stroke his fur with trembling hands, whispering soft confidences while sunlight spilled through the window. Sometimes, if you listened closely, you’d hear him murmur stories of his youth: rambling walks along country lanes, the warmth of a fire, and a kitten who once curled beside him—black and white, just like Whiskers.
No one else heard those stories. But all of us saw the bond between them grow—quiet, steadfast, irreplaceable.
Then, one morning, Mr. Delano was gone. He had slipped away in his sleep, peaceful and alone. But Whiskers wasn’t by the window that day. We found him curled on the bed beside Mr. Delano’s still form, eyes half-closed, unmoving. He wouldn’t eat. He wouldn’t play. He barely blinked.
While packing up Mr. Delano’s few belongings—a frayed cardigan, some dog-eared paperbacks—we found a photograph tucked in a drawer. It showed a younger Mr. Delano holding a black-and-white kitten, smiling as if frozen in a perfect summer day. On the back, in a careful script, were five words: My boy, always waiting.
Continue reading on next page…