Disappeared, and Thank GoodnessNo one dared to speak his name again, and the village breathed easier for it.

“Listen, neighbour, I haven’t seen your cat in the hallway for a while. How’s he getting on? Still alive and well?”

The neighbour, hearing the mention of the cat, suddenly perked up and broke into a grin.

“He disappeared a few days ago somewhere. And thank God for that!”

“Why thank God?” Nicholas tried to keep his voice steady, even though inside he was seething.

*****

For the past two weeks, Nicholas had noticed his neighbours constantly throwing their cat out onto the landing. Yes, they’d just grab him by the scruff and toss him out.

Sometimes the owner did it. Sometimes the wife.

And sometimes…

…the poor cat would fly right past Nicholas’s nose.

“Watch what you’re doing!” Nicholas had scolded the woman next door. But she hadn’t even listened.

Instead of apologising for her behaviour, she glared at him from under her brow and slammed the door.

Or rather—slammed it so hard the windows in the stairwell rattled, and surely at least a couple of hairline cracks appeared in the building’s foundations. At first Nicholas naively assumed his eccentric neighbours were simply letting their cat out for some air or training him to go outside on his own.

But after a while he realised it was punishment for some misdeed.

In other words: if the cat did something wrong, off he went into the hallway.

Sometimes terrified, sometimes deeply sad, the cat would sit for hours on the fourth-floor landing in front of the door covered in brown leatherette, waiting to be forgiven and let back in.

And his owners would forgive him, of course—they’d take him back inside, but not straight away.

If he started meowing or scratching at the door, the woman would whack him with the broom.

Nicholas had seen it happen with his own eyes.

He’d been climbing the stairs (the lift in his block had been broken for six months) and, reaching the fourth floor, spotted the familiar cat. He’d even been about to greet him, but…

…the cat wasn’t paying Nicholas any attention.

He was meowing loudly and clawing at the door.

The cat clearly wanted to get home, and since they wouldn’t let him in, he was trying this simple way to remind them he was there.

Footsteps sounded inside the flat, then the door swung open abruptly, and the woman in a worn-out dressing gown, without a word, hit the cat as hard as she could with the broom and immediately shut the door.

It happened so fast that Nicholas didn’t have a chance to say anything. And he had plenty to say…

…he’d wanted to shame that woman for treating her pet so poorly.

“That really got you, didn’t it, mate?” Nicholas asked as he approached the cat.

The cat looked at him with sad eyes, but there was gratitude in his gaze too—for someone, at least, paying him attention.

They threw the cat out into the hallway for the slightest offence.

One day Nicholas heard the neighbour shouting across the whole flat: “Oh, you little devil! Knocked over the vase again! Pete, chuck the cat out right now. That’ll teach him to jump on tables!”—and a minute later the door cracked open, and a hairy man’s arm appeared, gripping the cat firmly by the scruff.

Then the fingers opened, the cat dropped onto the landing, and the door closed at once. The cat got up and sat facing the door—waiting to be forgiven and let back inside.

Nicholas just shook his head disapprovingly. He simply couldn’t understand that kind of discipline.

He stroked the cat and went home.

And the cat kept sitting in the same spot, a look of universal sorrow on his whiskered face.

Nicholas wasn’t overly sentimental, but that image stuck in him like a thorn.

“How can anyone treat a living creature like that?” he thought. After a while, whenever Nicholas passed by, he’d slow his step, and the cat, recognising him, would start a low, rumbling purr—both welcoming and a little pleading.

Sometimes Nicholas would squat beside him, scratch behind his ear, and the cat, closing his eyes, would press his head into Nicholas’s fingers, then nudge his wet nose against his palm.

The cat was warm, alive, and incredibly trusting, and it made Nicholas feel awful.

He just couldn’t understand why such a sweet cat had ended up with such heartless owners. Why, for heaven’s sake, did they get a pet if they didn’t love anything but themselves? “Strange people, honestly.”

Then one day, meeting the cat in the hallway again, Nicholas made a firm decision: if those people threw the animal out one more time, he’d do something about it. Enough of this cruelty.

He didn’t know exactly what he’d do, but he felt he had to intervene, or it would never end.

The day Nicholas’s patience finally snapped came on a Friday, when he returned home especially angry.

He’d had a row with colleagues at work, people on the bus had jostled and stepped on his feet, and a miserable drizzle had been falling since morning. His mood was at rock bottom. Maybe even lower.

Climbing the stairs, he heard a familiar pitiful “meow” from the third floor.

The cat, as usual, was sitting faithfully by his door, but no one was letting him in.

And it was quite chilly in the stairwell. It wasn’t May, to say the least. Nicholas stopped on the landing and stared thoughtfully at the cat, who, seeing him, started purring as usual and came over.

And then—bam!

All the day’s troubles suddenly seemed trivial to Nicholas. The cat had problems.

What kind? Huge ones! He was treated like an object. Like a toy. What could be worse?

Nicholas listened to the silence behind the leatherette door. No one cared about this cat.

And he felt a strong urge to teach his neighbours a lesson.

“Right, that’s enough,” Nicholas said out loud, surprised at his own resolve. “Come with me.”

He bent down, scooped up the cat.

The cat immediately purred louder and rubbed his head against Nicholas’s damp jacket, leaving smudges of fur.

Then they went up to the seventh floor, where Nicholas lived.

He took the cat for just a couple of days.

“Let the owners get scared, let them search and worry. They’ll realise you can’t do that…” Nicholas thought as he entered his flat. At his place, the cat settled in surprisingly fast. He sniffed the corners, jumped onto the sofa, circled to choose a spot, then curled up on the blanket, looking gratefully at his rescuer.

While the cat rested, Nicholas, despite the miserable drizzle and his tiredness, dashed to the nearest pet shop, bought the best cat food, a litter tray, and some toys—in case the furry guest got bored while he was out.

The next day, Saturday, Nicholas went to his front door several times, opened it, and peered into the hallway.

He was very surprised that the hallway was dead quiet.

No one was walking up and down the floors, no one was calling the cat’s name (Nicholas still didn’t know what it was), and no one had put up any notices.

It seemed that no one was looking for the missing cat. And that was strange. Very strange…

Nicholas went back inside, looked at the cat, and shrugged.

The cat, in turn, stretched lazily on the sofa and didn’t even think about asking to go out.

“Listen, maybe you want to go back to the hallway?” Nicholas asked on Sunday, pointing at the door. “I’m not keeping you. Go if you need to.”

The cat looked at the door, then at Nicholas, and demonstratively began licking his paw.

Then he got up, came over, and rubbed against Nicholas’s leg.

The answer was clearer than any words. Nicholas closed the door, chuckled, and picked up the cat.

They went to the kitchen for breakfast, then to the living room to watch telly. It was the weekend, after all. The cat lay on his lap, purring like a little tractor, and for the first time in ages the flat felt truly cosy.

Then Monday came. No one had looked for the cat.

And Nicholas decided he wouldn’t give him back to the owners.

The only thing that bothered him was the possibility that the neighbours might accuse him of theft.

Technically, he had stolen someone else’s property. True, it was alive, and he’d done it with good intentions and for educational purposes, but still, it was theft.

Nicholas ran through possible scenarios in his mind: the neighbours would call the police, he’d be charged with stealing, he’d have to explain and justify himself. They might not understand his motives.

That thought drilled into his brain and wouldn’t let him relax. So all day at work Nicholas was on edge, constantly checking his phone—had anyone called? But no missed calls came.

When Nicholas returned home that evening, he saw the neighbour heading out to throw away rubbish.

The black bin bag didn’t show what was inside, but the shape looked a lot like a cat litter tray.

Waving to the neighbour to stop, Nicholas approached and asked casually:

“Listen, neighbour, I haven’t seen your cat in the hallway for a while. How’s he getting on? Still alive and well?”

The neighbour, hearing about the cat, brightened up and broke into a grin:

“He disappeared a few days ago. And thank God for that!”

“Why thank God?” Nicholas tried to keep his voice even.

“Well, the wife wanted to take him to the country cottage and leave him there. She says he’s a nuisance—fur everywhere, yowling at night, knocking over vases. And there he’d catch mice, at least some use. But I really didn’t want to drive all the way out there. First, it’s miles away. Second, she’d definitely make me do some work. So the cat just left on his own, and we don’t have to go. I even drank four pints of beer yesterday to celebrate. It’s a holiday.”

“Don’t you feel sorry for the cat at all? What if something happened to him?”

“Why feel sorry? He’s not a person. Hey, why are you asking about him anyway?” The neighbour narrowed his eyes with slight suspicion and looked at Nicholas.

“Oh, just wondering…” Nicholas replied thoughtfully, then, without saying goodbye, hurried towards the stairwell.

Inside, Nicholas was boiling with indignation.

“To the cottage, in late October. Take him there and leave him to die. And not a shred of regret. They’re even glad he ‘left on his own’ so they didn’t have to drive out and dirty their hands.”

He pictured for a moment that kind, trusting cat sitting on the porch of an empty country cottage—or even under the fence—waiting faithfully for someone to come back.

Waiting as faithfully and devotedly as he had outside that door in the hallway. For his neighbours, the cat was a thing—sometimes nice, sometimes a nuisance, and if it got too bothersome, you just put it outside.

First into the hallway for a few hours, then to the cottage forever.

When Nicholas reached the seventh floor and entered his flat, and saw the cat faithfully waiting for him by the door, his heart warmed.

And he suddenly realised he had done the right thing…

He was right to steal the cat from such heartless people, who were planning to take him to the country at the end of autumn and abandon him.

Nicholas smiled, picked up the cat, and they went to the kitchen to cook dinner.

After dinner, they lay on the sofa watching telly.

Or rather—Nicholas watched, and the cat simply stayed near. Now he rolled onto one side, then the other. Then the cat stirred again, but this time he rolled onto his back and trustingly exposed his belly—his most vulnerable spot. He did it without hesitation. Because he was no longer afraid.

Because a true home isn’t just a roof over your head or a bowl of cat food.

A true home is where you don’t have to earn the right to belong.

And where you are loved. Simply. For being there.