The rain fell in fine, whispering threads outside the window, silver against the dull gray of the late afternoon. The breeze was cool, and though the storm hadn’t yet turned heavy, the scent of wet pavement and lilac bushes drifted through the small opening she’d left in the window. It was the sort of weather she and Fred had always loved.
She sat in the bedroom, cross-legged on the old quilt that still held faint traces of cat hair, worn in patches from years of love. Her gaze was fixed on the street outside, but her eyes weren’t seeing it. She saw something else—something softer. The flick of a striped tail as it vanished down the hall, the slow, confident way Fred had moved through her life. The silent weight of him curling beside her at night, his warmth pressed to her hip. The rumble of his purr like a secret engine keeping the house alive.
She hadn’t been able to throw out the scratching post. Or the food bowls. Or the little basket of jingly toys. They sat in the hallway closet, out of sight but not out of mind.
A tear slid down her cheek. She wiped at it absently, but more followed. Her chest ached—not with sharpness, but a dull, echoing emptiness. She had grieved for other things before: lost jobs, broken friendships, even the end of a long relationship. But this was different. Fred had loved her with no conditions, no second-guessing. He had been home, even when she had none.
She leaned her forehead against the window frame, eyes closed. The sound of the rain was a kind of lullaby, and she let herself drift in the silence, not fighting the tears anymore. Her breath came unevenly, soft sobs rising like waves.
Then—thwap.
Something small and unexpected bumped her forehead. Her eyes flew open.
There was a shape on the windowsill. For a heartbeat, her mind filled with impossible thoughts—a bird, a branch, a ghost. Her hand flew to her face, wiping away the tears that blurred everything.
And there it was.
A kitten.
Tiny, drenched, with enormous ears and wide eyes that blinked curiously at her. It let out a piercing meow, half-demand, half-introduction.
She froze, caught between wonder and disbelief. The kitten meowed again, louder this time, then boldly stepped onto the windowsill and into her room, shaking water from its short fur.
As she reached out, it walked directly into her lap as if summoned. A small, insistent purr began to vibrate beneath its ribs, and it bumped its face against her cheek, rubbing in the same way Fred used to.
Tears surged again—but these were different. Laced with astonishment. With gratitude.
The kitten’s purr grew louder, vibrating against her chest as she scooped it up and held it close. It didn’t squirm. It simply nestled in, as if this had always been its destination.
“Where did you come from?” she whispered. She smoothed a hand down its back, marveling at the soft fur, the warmth, the life.
It was so small. So new. But the presence it brought felt old, familiar—like a whisper from another life.
She looked toward the hallway, where Fred’s things still waited. For once, she was glad she hadn’t found the strength to let them go.
She held the kitten out and looked into its eyes—gray, with a hint of green. “You came with the rain,” she said softly.
And then she smiled for the first time in what felt like forever.
“Regen,” she said aloud, testing the name. “It means ‘rain’ in German. Do you like that?”
The kitten meowed once, approvingly, and tucked its head into the crook of her arm.
She cradled it close again, her heart filling with a warm, glowing pressure that pushed back against the hollow spaces grief had carved. Fred’s place in her life would never be replaced—but maybe, just maybe, Regen had arrived to write a new chapter. Not a replacement, but a continuation. A little miracle on a rainy day.
“Thank you,” she whispered—to the sky, to Fred, to whatever mystery had sent Regen through her window.
Outside, the rain continued to fall. But inside, the silence had been broken. And the bedroom, for the first time in a long while, felt like home again.
Donna Maskell 