It’s been parked behind the old flooring warehouse for years, where it has rusted, lost its wheels, and been half-eaten by weeds. When people walk by, they don’t even glance. But if you look closely, the back seat shifts.
Fur, bowls, and blankets.
Cats. At least eight of them.
Everyone hates them. They don’t get any food. But they find a way to get through.
Some days, you might see a new can opened on the curb. There is a half-full bag of kibble under the passenger seat. It seems like someone still folds the towels at night because there is usually one on the front dashboard that is folded perfectly.
I asked the person behind the counter at the corner store. He said, “Oh, the car with the cat.” Been there for a long time.
I asked the person who takes care of everything. “They’re clean cats,” he said. They don’t bother anyone.
I asked the woman who worked at the church pantry some questions. She sighed and said, “I’m not worried about the cats.” They are waiting for someone.
That stuck with me.
When she said that, she looked down the road, as if she feared someone would show up at any moment.
I couldn’t quit thinking about it all night. Who are they waiting for? Why would you leave cats in a car that doesn’t work? Why do you continually giving them food but never show up?
The next morning, I walked to the warehouse. The air smelled like wet concrete and rust. The car was there like it always is, and the blue paint was hard to see through the brown flakes. The kittens blinked at me through the window. One lay across the back seat, and another jumped onto the hood like it was going to protect the others.
I bent down and said, “Who takes care of you?”
The cats only blinked and swished their tails. Their eyes shone in the low light.
That night, I put a little can of tuna by the curb. I didn’t see anyone, but the next morning the can was gone, like it had been washed and carried away.
It turned into a habit. I would leave food every several days. And every time, it was gone by the next morning. The cats started to pay more attention to me. When I drew close, they started to meow softly, rub against the damaged door frame, and look at me with calm, trusting eyes.
But I never saw the other person.
Until one night.
It was late, close to midnight. I couldn’t sleep, so I went for a walk to get my mind off things. There was simply the sound of a truck on the highway in the distance on the street. As I drew closer to the warehouse, I saw something move. There was a small person huddled by the car, and the flashlight was barely lit.
I stood still behind a stack of pallets. They opened a bag and set bowls of food on the table, stroking each cat on the head as they did so. Because they leaned in, the cats knew this person. They weren’t scared; they purred and rubbed against their legs like family.
The guy switched the towel on the dashboard and then put their hand in their pocket. They took out a folded piece of paper, slid it under the wiper blade, and then stood there for a long time, looking at the car.
After that, they walked down the alley and into the dark.
I didn’t chase after them. The way they moved—slow and heavy, like every step carried a weight—made me stop and wonder.
The note was still there when I woke up.
I don’t know why I did it, but I slid it out. The handwriting was bad:
“I’ll come back when I can.” Take care of them if you see this. Please.
No name. No justification was given. That’s it.
For days, I couldn’t stop thinking about it. Who wrote it? Why leave? Did they have a cold? Are you hiding? Are you trying to get away from something?
I saw it again on a Saturday. Not at night this time, but during the day. I saw her as I was riding my bike. A woman in her late sixties or early seventies with a faded denim jacket on. She knelt down next to the car and talked to the cats in a low voice.
I slowed down, but I didn’t stop. She looked up, and for a brief moment, our eyes met. Her eyes were tired, yet they were sharp, as if she had seen and done more than most people could handle.
I had something to say. But before I could, she turned around, walked into the warehouse lot, and departed.
I looked for her again over the next few weeks. “I see you take care of them,” I wrote on notes and put them under the wiper. “Can we talk?” No one answered any of them.
But the kittens were okay. Someone was still looking after them, maybe both of us.
Then the twist came.
I saw lights flashing on a night when it was raining. There were two police cars parked close to the building. Police officers with flashlights looked around the area. The kitties were cuddled together in the car with their eyes open. I hurried over and pretended to be interested, just like everyone else.
One police officer told the other, “She’s back.” People who lived close reported they spotted her.
The other cop let out a sigh. “She’s not a danger.” Being stubborn. Ever since her kid died, that sad widow has been living like way.
That stopped me in my tracks.
Her son?
I stayed till they left, but they didn’t find her. There were only wet footprints and whispers remained.
Later, I figured out what happened by listening to what people said in town. The woman’s name was Marta. Years ago, her son was into a car accident not far from the warehouse. He used to own the car that is now full with cats.
After he died, she couldn’t make herself let it go. She pulled it behind the warehouse, where no one would tow it. No one knew why cats started to arrive up. All of them ended up there: strays, pets who had been lost, and pets that had been left behind.
Marta assumed they were a sign, so she began to feed them. Some people indicated she thought her son’s spirit was with them. Some folks felt she just wanted something to do to fill the void he left.
She kept coming back, even after the police warned her to go. Even after the warehouse was sold. Even when the people next door didn’t like it.
Then, all of a sudden, the church lady’s sigh made sense. “I don’t care about the kitties. They are waiting for someone.
They were waiting for Marta.
One afternoon, I eventually met up with her again. She was sitting on a box and brushing one of the cats with an old comb. It was raining, and her jacket was soaked, but she didn’t seem to mind.
I walked over slowly. I said “hi” in a gentle voice. “I’ve seen you here.”
She stared at me like she didn’t trust me. “A lot of people walk by.”
“But not many people bring food.”
Her eyes went smaller and then bigger again. She nodded once. “You’re the one who leaves tuna.”
I smiled. “Not guilty.”
She stared at me for a long time. Then she patted the container next to her. I took a seat.
The cats moved between us like a flood, their tails brushing against my palms and their eyes blinking trust. Marta patted the one that was sitting on her lap. “They keep me alive,” she murmured softly.
I didn’t know how to respond.
She kept chatting in a low voice. “My son loved animals. He brought home strays all the time. I thought I’d go with him when he… when he left. Then, one day, this car—his car—was full with cats. As if they knew. Like he told them to do. That’s why I stayed.
What she said definitely hit home.
I saw them a lot for weeks after that. Sometimes we would sit alone and observe the kittens. She would tell anecdotes about her son, like how he used to fix bikes, how he would sneak food to the dog down the street, and how much he hated being late to anything.
The cops still came around sometimes, but I noticed that they never pushed too hard. Maybe they understood, or maybe they just felt bad for her.
The next day, the car was empty. No cats. No blankets. It’s just a shell made of metal.
I panicked because I thought something had happened. I ran to the church’s food pantry. The woman there gave me a sorrowful smile. “Animal rescue came.” Marta finally agreed. “It was time,” she said.
“What time?” I asked.
“She’s going to stay with her sister. She said she couldn’t remain out here much longer. She told us to say thank you to the boy who brought the tuna.
I had to think for a second to realize she was talking about me.
I went back to the warehouse that night. The car looked smaller without the animals. By yourself. I sat on the hood with rain dropping on my jacket and thought of Marta.
I never saw her again. I learned, though, that the shelter had found homes for most of the cats a few weeks later. Some stayed together as pairs, while others moved in with families who had kids.
And I knew that was what she had always desired. She wanted to keep them alive, but she also wanted to see them secure, loved, and going on, even if it took her years to do so.
That’s when I really got what the lesson was about. We occasionally save broken things because they remind us of someone who has died. Letting go doesn’t imply you don’t love someone anymore. It lets it go. It lets it spread, just like the cats did when they looked for new homes.
When I walk by the empty lot now, I don’t only see rust. I saw a bold kind of silence. The sort that helps you get through loss, feed yourself when you can barely do it, and finally say goodbye when the time comes.
If you see something in your town that people don’t pay attention to, like a car, a corner, or a place where people are whispering, take a closer look. There might be a whole tale waiting for you that will help you remember what it is to keep going, care, and let go.
We can learn the most from the smallest lives, like the ones that are curled up in the backseat of a car that has been left behind.
Please share this story with someone who might need a reminder about love, loss, and moving on if it touched you. And don’t forget to like it, too. It helps more people who need stories like this find them.