Whiskers had been at the nursing home for as long as anyone could remember. The staff swore he’d just appeared one day, strolling in like he belonged. He was picky about people, barely tolerating most of us. But with Mr. Delano? It was different.

Every morning, Whiskers would climb onto Mr. Delano’s lap, curling up as the old man stroked his fur with shaky hands. They had a routine—gentle pets, soft whispers, moments of quiet understanding. No one could explain why, but they were inseparable. The next morning, we expected Whiskers to be by the window, waiting for him. Instead, we found him curled up on Mr. Delano’s empty bed, paws tucked under his chin, eyes half-closed. He didn’t move all day.

That night, as we were packing up Mr. Delano’s few belongings, one of the nurses gasped. She had found an old photograph tucked inside his drawer. It was a much younger Mr. Delano, smiling, holding a small black-and-white kitten in his arms. On the back, scribbled in faded ink, were just four words:

My boy, always waiting.” I looked at Whiskers, still curled on the bed, and my breath caught in my throat. Could it really be…? And then, without a sound, Whiskers stood up, stretched, and padded out of the room. For days, Whiskers didn’t act like himself. He barely ate, didn’t respond when people called his name, and refused to settle anywhere for long. The spark in his green eyes had dulled, as if he were lost without his person.

“Maybe he’s just grieving,” one of the nurses said. “Animals feel loss too.” But there was something else—something deeper. It was as if he had lost not just a friend, but a purpose. Then one evening, just before closing hours, something strange happened. Whiskers, who had been curled on the couch by the fireplace, suddenly lifted his head. His ears twitched. His whole body went rigid for a moment, then he leapt down and trotted down the hallway.