Frosts on the HeartThe frosts on his heart melted only when he saw her smile through the winter window.

It was New Year’s Eve. December 31st. A day off. Midday. Outside, a true winter had settled in, everything buried under a blanket of snow. Against the windows, fat snowflakes hurtled through the air, real frost gripping the world—and I felt a frost grip my heart. You know what New Year’s Eve is like on such a beautiful, white day? Well, that was exactly this day. I had broken up with my woman, and there was absolutely no one to celebrate with.

I didn’t want to go to relatives. I didn’t want to hear their questions about my life, my answers, and then watch their pitying faces. Outside and inside, there was frost. That’s how it was.

Then I remembered my aunt. The kindest soul, God rest her. Until her last day, she helped everyone she could, and she used to tell me: “On New Year’s Eve, you must gather everything you can. Tasty food, blankets—go outside. Feed every cat and every dog you meet, and lay down a warm blanket for them.” And that’s exactly what she did.

But I was lazy. Only a couple of times I’d rushed to the park and scattered dry food in different spots.

I guess my time had come, I thought. Time to remember my dear aunt’s advice and honour her memory. I packed two big bags. One held cooked chicken and a pile of dry cat food; the other had towels and a couple of old blankets.

Dressed in a warm hooded coat, I stepped outside. The wind hit my face, full of snow. I shivered and walked. I searched for a long time, but found nothing. Maybe the cats were hiding from the cold, or maybe I just couldn’t spot them. Exhausted, with no idea what to do or where to take all this, I ended up at a small square.

What a surprise. Everywhere else the wind howled and swept snow, but here the clouds parted. A single ray of sunlight dropped onto the ground and lingered—and in that ray sat a bench in the centre of the square, and a man sitting on it.

I walked over and sat down next to him. I desperately wanted to rest, and it felt so good to sit in that gentle beam of light.

He was a strange old man in a knitted hat. He held a bouquet of tulips in his hands, staring straight ahead.

“Nice here,” I said into the void.

“Pleasant and warm,” he replied.

“Why aren’t you going to celebrate New Year?” I asked.

“I’ll go soon,” the grey-haired man answered. “I’ve still got a lot to do. Just finishing this cigarette and one other thing.” He looked at me. “And why aren’t you going?” he smiled.

“No one to celebrate with,” I stammered. “And my aunt used to say…” I pointed to the bags.

“Your aunt told you that on New Year’s Eve you must gather everything you can—tasty food, blankets—and go outside to give it all to stray cats and dogs,” the old man finished, looking straight into my eyes.

My jaw dropped. My cigarette fell to the ground. “How do you know that?” I gasped.

In the old man’s eyes, stars suddenly sparkled. “Go,” he said. “You need to hurry—someone is waiting for you. Remember your aunt often. She was the kindest soul.” He stood up, left the tulips on the bench, and walked forward, stepping out of the sunlight. He crossed the road and suddenly vanished behind a passing bus. As if he dissolved into thin air.

I got up from the bench and noticed four cats staring greedily at my bags. The smell of chicken must have reached them.

First came two shaggy beauties with fluffy tails. Then from the bushes, hopping amusingly in the snowdrifts, two more emerged.

“You’re exactly who I need,” I told them, and I laid out all my treats and blankets under a small shelter that protected them from the heavy snow.

With a light heart, I headed home, tossing the empty bags. I only scolded myself for not asking the grey old man with stars in his eyes what he meant by “someone is waiting for me.” And I should have asked about my aunt. That’s me all over—always forgetting the most important things, messing them up. My whole life like this, I berated myself.

Without noticing, my legs carried me to my building. I was about to go through the front door when my eyes dropped down.

There, in the bushes, in a snowdrift, sat a tiny grey kitten, crying, clutching its left paw.

I crouched down in front of it. “What’s wrong, little one?”

The kitten sobbed and stretched out a tiny, wet, ice-cold paw. I pulled both hands from my pockets and took it. And then—completely out of nowhere—the words escaped me:

“Daddy’s hands are very healing. The sun will make you feel better soon.”

I carefully scooped up the small trembling body in my palms, pressed it to my chest, and stepped into the entrance.

Now I had someone to care for, someone to welcome the New Year with.

Still, that grey old man with the stars in his eyes hadn’t lied. Someone was waiting for me. Truly waiting. And that’s the most important thing—when someone is waiting for you.