The first time I saw him was on a chilly Tuesday night in early autumn. He was outside the 24-hour laundromat, curled up on a ripped, faded camping mat that had lost most of its padding. The fluorescent light from the laundromat spilled onto the sidewalk, making the scene both stark and oddly intimate.

Resting across his chest was a small orange cat with half an ear missing, her paws tucked neatly under her chin. The two of them seemed to breathe in unison, as though sharing the same rhythm was the only comfort they needed.

His shoes were barely holding together, the soles worn smooth and patched with strips of silver duct tape. His “backpack” wasn’t a backpack at all—just a black trash bag knotted tightly at the top, sitting like a fragile anchor beside him. I didn’t know their names then, or anything about their story, but something about the quiet, protective way his arms circled the cat made me stop.

I worked nights at a café a few blocks away, and on impulse, I began bringing them leftovers—soup in a paper cup, a bag of pastries that hadn’t sold, sometimes a sandwich wrapped in wax paper. Read more below