The Mysterious Cat Who Left Dead Flowers – What Her Silent Visits Taught Me About Grief and Release
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It started in late October, the kind of season when everything feels like it's about to end. I found the first one on my doorstep: a wilted marigold, browned and broken at the stem, curled like it had held something too long.
Next to it sat a cat. Black as spilled ink, with a single white streak on its chest like a smudge someone had tried to rub away. It didn’t meow, didn’t approach, just watched me with the calm of something older than it looked. Then it vanished. No sound. Just the flower left behind.
A Pattern of Mourning
The flowers kept coming. Always dead. Sometimes daisies, sometimes roses stripped of their petals. Once, a cluster of lavender, crumbling to dust before I could pick it up. The cat was always there, always silent, always gone before I could reach for it.
I didn’t tell anyone. It felt too strange, too specific, like the kind of omen people mock until it’s about them. At first, I tried to make sense of it. Was it a gift? A warning? A joke from the universe? But the truth settled in more quietly: it felt like grief. Not mine exactly, but something near it. Something watching the shape of my sorrow and answering with its own.
Things I Never Buried
The cat reminded me of someone I used to know. Someone who left without saying goodbye, who gave me closure in the form of silence. They had a way of arriving when I needed them and disappearing just as suddenly, like a ghost who believed they were doing me a favor by leaving.
The flowers, brittle and quiet, became mirrors. I started seeing myself in them, the parts of me I’d let go of too late, the relationships I’d stayed in too long. The promises I made in desperation and never kept.
Every dead bloom felt like a confession I hadn’t made out loud.
The Last Visit
One morning, it stopped. No flower. No cat. I stood there, coffee cooling in my hands, waiting longer than I needed to. Not because I missed the strangeness, but because part of me had come to rely on it, on that soft ritual of mystery, that unspoken understanding between a broken creature and whatever part of me had gone quiet.
The absence didn’t ache. It just felt... acknowledged. That night, I threw out the last brittle bouquet I’d been saving on the windowsill. And for the first time in months, I dreamed of nothing.
Sometimes, the dead things we keep aren’t haunting us. They’re reminding us it’s okay to let go.
Nadeera Nilupamali
Nadeera Nilupamali
. 269 Stories
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