A never-ending affection

The days of autumn were about to be over. Winter was slowly setting in. The yellowed leaves of the trees in my yard had started falling one by one, covering the ground in a golden blanket. Every now and then, a gentle breeze would carry a few more leaves through the air before they quietly settled on the grass. The sky remained grey for most of the day, and the cold air had begun to creep into the mornings.

Near one of the trees lay a black cat, fast asleep. It hardly moved except for the occasional flick of its tail whenever a dry leaf landed beside it. I often found myself looking out through my bedside window, watching the peaceful autumn landscape and the signs of the approaching winter.

I had been severely ill for the past few days, and the doctor had advised me to complete bed rest. Although my mind longed to step outside and breathe the crisp autumn air, my body refused to cooperate. So, every day I remained by the window, watching the world continue without me.

I had first noticed the black cat only a few days before my illness. Before that, I had never seen it anywhere around the neighbourhood. The cat was unusual in a way. It did not seem to belong to anyone, yet it did not behave like a stray either. It wandered around my yard with a strange sense of familiarity, as though it had been visiting the place for years. Sometimes it would simply sit beneath the yellow tree, watching the falling leaves without making a sound.

Days passed, and my health slowly began to improve. I could finally walk around the house and spend a little time outside. One afternoon, while strolling through my yard, I found the cat lying near the same tree once again. This time, however, it was in a terrible condition. There were scratches across its body, its fur was dirty and unkempt, and it looked painfully thin. Someone must have injured it, or perhaps it had been struggling to survive for days.

I could not simply leave it there.

I gently carried it inside my house. At first it looked frightened, but after a while it stopped resisting and quietly rested in a small basket near the fireplace. Over the next several days, I cleaned its wounds, fed it regularly, and kept it warm. Little by little, its strength returned. The dullness in its eyes slowly disappeared, and it began walking around the house with quiet curiosity.

I never truly kept it as a pet, however. I did not have anyone else at home who could look after it whenever I was away. So, once it had recovered, I let it come and go as it pleased. Most evenings, it would still return to the same yellow tree in my yard and curl up beneath it as though that place meant something only it could understand.

A few weeks later, my wife and I travelled to another city for several days. Before leaving, I wondered whether the cat would disappear while we were gone. Yet, when we returned home, I found it resting beneath the same tree, almost as if it had been waiting there all along.

One afternoon, one of my very old teachers came to visit me. I was surprised and delighted to see him after so many years. We spent hours talking about the old days, laughing over forgotten memories and remembering people we had not met in decades.

Eventually, our conversation drifted towards his present life.

With a gentle smile that slowly turned into sadness, he told me that years ago he had a black cat whom he loved dearly. Every evening, after returning home from work, he would spend hours in his backyard playing hide and seek with it beneath a tree whose leaves turned bright yellow every autumn. As he spoke, his voice grew quieter, and before long tears had begun rolling down his cheeks. He said the cat had disappeared one day without a trace, and despite searching everywhere, he had never found it again.

Listening to him, I felt a strange thought forming in my mind.

The black cat in my yard… could it possibly be the same one?

Although I had grown deeply fond of the quiet little creature, I decided to show it to him.

The moment the cat saw my teacher, it stood still for a brief second before running towards him. Without hesitation it leapt into his arms, rubbing its head against his shoulder. My teacher held it tightly, unable to hold back his tears. The years that had separated them seemed to vanish in that single moment.

He thanked me again and again, while I simply smiled. Deep inside, I knew I would miss seeing the black cat waiting beneath the yellow tree every morning.

The seasons continued to change.

Autumn gave way to winter, winter slowly melted into spring, and before long another autumn arrived. Every now and then I would visit my teacher. Sometimes we would sit together beneath the old yellow tree while the cat wandered around us. Other days it would disappear among the falling leaves for a while before quietly returning, just as it always had.

Neither of us ever spoke much during those visits.

There never seemed to be a need.

The tree still sheds its yellow leaves every autumn. The cat still finds new places to hide among them. My teacher still smiles whenever he sees it emerge from behind the trunk. And every time I visit, I find myself looking at the same quiet scene, wondering how something as simple as a passing stranger, an autumn afternoon, and a black cat could become a memory that never really reaches an ending.