The alley was cold and silent, save for the soft padding of paws against the pavement. A scrawny, dirt-covered stray cat slinked through the shadows, ribs clearly visible beneath its matted fur. Hunger gnawed at its insides like a relentless claw. Days had passed since its last proper meal—a half-eaten sandwich tossed in a trash bin.
Tonight, though, the smell was too tempting to ignore. Roasted chicken. Warm, fresh, sitting just inside the open door of a small restaurant. The cat crept closer, heart pounding. A few steps, a pause, then another. Just one piece, it thought. Just enough to keep the ache away for a little longer.
It darted in, grabbed a scrap with its teeth—and chaos erupted.
Shouts. Stomping feet. A broom swinging through the air. A harsh hand grabbed it by the scruff. The cat yowled, not in anger but in confusion. It didn’t understand. Wasn’t this just survival? Wasn’t this what it had to do to live?
The humans yelled words it didn’t know, their faces twisted in anger and disgust. It was thrown out into the street, landing hard on its side. Dazed, it scrambled to its feet and vanished into the darkness, the chicken long gone.
Behind a dumpster, the cat curled up, shivering. Its empty stomach howled louder than ever. Its golden eyes blinked slowly, still not grasping what had gone wrong. Why did they hate it for being hungry?
To the cat, stealing food wasn’t theft—it was life. It didn’t know laws or property or human rules. It only knew hunger and survival. It didn’t want to bother anyone. It didn’t want to be a nuisance. It just didn’t want to die.
As the city fell quiet, the stray lay in silence, too tired to move, too hungry to hope. The world had punished it for wanting to live, and it didn’t understand why.
