A few weeks after my mother passed away following a long illness, the house felt quieter than I ever thought possible. Every room still carried traces of her routines—string lights she’d hung too early for Christmas, half-unpacked ornaments on the table, and the familiar stillness of a space waiting for someone who would never return. Her black cat, Cole, became my constant companion during those days. He followed me from room to room, slept beside me at night, and seemed to understand the weight of what we had lost. Then, just days before Christmas, he disappeared. In that moment, it felt as though the last living connection to my mother had slipped away too, leaving me overwhelmed by grief and uncertainty.
The days that followed blurred together. I searched the neighborhood, asked neighbors, and left food on the porch each night, hoping he would return. Christmas decorations remained unfinished, the tree only half done, because every ornament felt tied to a memory I wasn’t ready to face.