Introduction
The moving van rolled away into the gray Washington afternoon. Boxes sighed in the corridors of their new house. Mirrors reflected unfamiliar ceilings. It was just a family starting fresh — or so they thought. Then Miranda and her family found the letter left behind by the previous owners: “Welcome to our beloved home! We hope you enjoy it as much as we have! There’s one favour we ask of you…”
A Strange Welcome
From the moment they turned the key, the home felt alive in a way they couldn’t place. There was no cat meowing in the hall, no paw prints on the carpet. Yet the letter spoke of a resident who was neither lost nor gone. “Almost 12 years ago, a stray cat brought her kitten to the family living there…” it read. That caught them off guard. They had five indoor cats already, but this was different. The previous family explained that they cared for a ginger cat with an injured paw, labelled “feral”, but never abandoned. They fed him, sheltered him—and now asked the new occupants to continue.
First Contact
Miranda set the letter aside and turned toward the backyard. Rain drizzled softly. There, behind a glass door, the ginger cat appeared. He sat upright on a wooden chair, his injured paw tucked beneath him, his coat matted in places but still gleaming in the dull light. He waited. She froze. The moment was charged. The letter was real. The cat was real. And he was inviting them in — in his own way.
Learning Each Other’s Language
Over the next few days, the family respected his boundaries. Food was placed outside, in the little house mentioned in the letter. water beside it. The old family’s words echoed: “We bought him a little house for the winter and rainy days…” He came by each afternoon, sat, watched, ate, retreated. He never set paw inside the house. But that did not matter. A bridge was forming. He knew they weren’t the threat. They knew he wasn’t a guest.
The Backyard Kingdom
The ginger cat claimed the garden as his realm. He chased bugs, basked in shafts of sunlight, curled on old flat rocks. He never forgot the little shelter against the wall. Miranda watched him from behind the glass door, her indoor cats untouched by this quiet royal. She named him Raz. She felt the weight of that name, of the continuity from the letter. She realized he had lived two lives: feral and tended.
A Year of Moments
Day after day, Raz returned. Winter came: frost glazed the backyard, the tiny house stood like a sentinel. The family placed a warm blanket inside. Raz puffed out his chest, stayed longer. Spring arrived: sunflowers sprouted where he lay on the rock. Summer followed: he watched the indoor cats from the threshold, the white door between worlds. Each time, Miranda greeted him softly: “Good morning, handsome.” He didn’t meow but blinked slowly — a feline nod.
Unexpected Tragedy
Then one morning the house was silent. Raz did not sit by the door. The family searched the garden, called softly. The blanket was gone, the kitchen blinds pulled. Later, Miranda received news: they believed Raz had ingested rat poison while they were away. Wild sorrow crashed in. They held him as he left them. She whispered: “What a good boy you were.” The rock where he liked to sleep became his resting place. Sunflowers stood tall around it.
Legacy and Gratitude
As autumn leaves fell, the family sat in the garden. The tiny house remained empty. The note still hung on the fridge. The five indoor cats curled up inside. But Raz’s presence lingered: in the sunlit chair, in the chattering bugs, in the empty doorway. Miranda posted a photo of the rock, the flowers, the empty chair. People wrote: “I cried.” “Thank you for caring.”
Conclusion
The letter that began as a simple request — “please feed him” — became a lesson in compassion, presence, and continuity. A house doesn’t just carry people. It carries stories, furry silhouettes, silent guardians of gardens. Raz didn’t ask for love. He asked for respect. And in the end, he taught it. So next time you move in, watch for the letter, the silhouette behind the glass, the legacy you didn’t know you inherited. Because sometimes the best welcome comes with four paws and a wink of amber eyes.
