Her Kitten Gets Snatched By Something Hiding In The Woods—Little Did The Neighborhood Know That It Was A Danger To Them All
It was one of those afternoons that felt almost too perfect to question—clear blue skies, warm sunshine, and a gentle breeze carrying the scent of freshly cut grass through the open patio door. Lisa sat on the back steps with a mug of tea, eyes half-closed as she watched Nina tumble through the wild patch of daisies near the fence. The kitten’s snowy fur shimmered in the light, her tiny bell chiming softly as she pounced on a windblown leaf.
Lisa glanced down at her phone for just a moment. One new message. She hadn’t even finished reading it before something in the air shifted. Subtle, but wrong. The breeze stilled. The trees gave a sharp, dry rustle. Lisa looked up. The yard was too quiet. She rose slowly, scanning the grass, the flowerbeds, the spot beneath the tree where Nina had been seconds earlier.
“Nina?” she called, her voice gentle at first. No reply. She stepped forward. “Sweetheart?” The silence felt heavy. Then—a faint rustle from the brush, like something brushing past a branch. But nothing appeared. No bell. No cry. No little white blur bounding back into sight. The spot where Nina had been moments ago was now simply… empty.
Lisa hadn’t planned on keeping the kitten. She’d first appeared one evening, huddled under the wicker bench on the porch, fur tangled and dull, her meow rasping like it hadn’t been used in days. Lisa had been halfway through unpacking groceries when she heard it.
At first, she thought it might be a bird or even a baby raccoon. But when she crouched down and tempted it with a slice of turkey, two huge amber eyes peered out from the shadows. Just skin, bones, and whiskers. Yet it purred the instant she scooped it up. Lisa wrapped it in a dishtowel and set down a shallow saucer of food.
That first night, it slept curled in the crook of her arm, trembling less with every passing hour. Lisa named her Nina—not for any particular reason, but because it felt right. Soft. Slightly old-fashioned. In the weeks that followed, Lisa’s routines shifted to accommodate her.
She built a perch on the windowsill, cushioned with an old scarf. Cleared a bottom kitchen drawer and filled it with toys she bought on impulse. Even surrendered her desk chair, because Nina had claimed it as her own. She was small, but her presence seemed to quietly expand to fill every corner.
She’d curl up beside Lisa while she read, nudge her chin during work calls, or chase sunbeams across the wooden floor. Lisa hadn’t realised how hollow her days had felt until Nina filled them. The kitten didn’t care about the divorce, or the mornings Lisa barely managed to sip her coffee while staring out the window.
All Nina wanted was a warm lap and the occasional word of affection. It was enough. Sometimes, Lisa caught herself narrating the day aloud: “What do you think of these leftovers, hmm?” or “I should clean the laundry room, but you look too settled.” She never felt silly. Talking to Nina made her feel anchored, as though she’d finally stopped drifting.