I saw him on the Blue Line, his coat zipped tight, worn shoes barely holding together. He carried an exhaustion that wasn’t just from lack of sleep—it was life itself. But what caught my eye wasn’t him. It was the tiny kitten nestled in his arms, purring louder than the train. He held her like something fragile, made of paper and dreams.

When I asked if she was his, he smiled softly. “No. She just found me.” He explained how he’d discovered her crying in an alley three nights earlier, soaked and freezing. He gave her the last bite of his sandwich, wrapped her in his scarf, and thought it would be just one night. But she never left. Now he was taking her “somewhere better.” He showed me a napkin with a message in a child’s handwriting: “She answers to Mina. Please bring her home. —Her little girl.”

At 6th and Maple, a note taped to a bench read: “If you’ve found her, thank you. We’re here every day at 4 p.m. My name is Elise.” It was 3:57. As we waited, the man quietly admitted he once had a daughter, but hadn’t seen her since she was five. His voice cracked as he wondered if she even remembered him.

At exactly 4, a little girl came running, her mother close behind. “Mina!” she screamed with joy. The kitten leapt into her arms, purring as if she knew. Elise, in tears, thanked the man and offered him food or shelter. He shook his head gently. “Just wanted her to get home.”

Then the girl studied his face. “Mama,” she whispered, “he looks like the picture in my locket.” Elise opened it—inside was his photo. Her voice trembled as she said, “She’s yours.” And just like that, he wasn’t alone anymore.