It was late afternoon when I first heard the soft, broken meow. I turned and saw a tiny kitten, frail and trembling, stumbling toward me. His eyes were clouded—blind. Yet, despite the darkness around him, he moved with desperate determination, trying to follow the sound of my footsteps. Each time I stepped away, he cried louder, as if pleading, “Don’t go… can you take me home?”
His fur was dirty and matted, his ribs visible beneath his fragile skin. No mother, no siblings. He was completely alone. My heart ached as I knelt down. He couldn’t see me, but he felt my presence. He reached out with his paw, searching, shaking… and when he touched my hand, he clung to it with all his tiny strength.
I gently scooped him up. He didn’t resist—he simply pressed his head into my palm, purring weakly as if afraid I might disappear. In that moment, I knew I couldn’t leave him behind. A blind stray kitten couldn’t survive another night on the streets.
At home, I prepared warm milk and soft bedding. He struggled to find the bowl, his head bumping clumsily. So I guided him, holding the dish close. Once he tasted it, he drank hungrily, as though he hadn’t eaten in days. Afterward, he curled into the blanket, but refused to sleep until my hand rested beside him. Only then did his trembling stop.
Days passed, and he began to trust. Though he couldn’t see, he learned my footsteps, my voice, my touch. He followed me by sound, always a few paces behind, afraid to be left alone again. I named him Courage—not because he was strong, but because he fought despite his fear.
He may be blind, but he sees with his heart. Each time I walk, he still tries to follow. Not out of fear anymore, but love.
He once pleaded, “Don’t go.”
Today, he knows—
I never will.
