Timmie brought Tigra home while I was still grieving in bed. 

I hadn’t gotten up much since Jinx passed. Wick stayed curled beside me like a living weighted blanket—steady, silent, loyal. The house felt too quiet, too hollow—even with his soft purr rumbling beside me. 

I didn’t ask for another cat. I wasn’t ready. My heart was still raw, still cracked wide open. I didn’t think I had it in me to start over. 

But Timmie… she saw the space that was left behind. And she filled it with hope. 

Tigra was the only kitten listed in Springfield. Just barely weaned. All ears, fierce eyes, and a stubborn little heartbeat wrapped in a patchwork coat. Timmie walked into the room, cradling her gently, like she already knew we needed each other—even if I didn’t know it yet. 

“She didn’t have anyone else,” she said quietly. 

The kitten let out one tiny, raspy mew. 

Wick opened one eye from his spot beside me. 

Tigra blinked at him, looked around the room like she was sizing it up… and then, with all the confidence in the world, wriggled free and marched across the bed. She stepped directly on Wick’s tail, sneezed in my general direction, and flopped onto my chest like she’d always lived there. 

Wick blinked again. 

Then turned his back, clearly offended. 

I wasn’t sure if I was ready. 

But Tigra? She’d already decided.