I still remember the snowy night I first met Snow. She was curled in a cardboard box outside a convenience store, her white fur blending with the falling flakes, only her jade-green eyes gleaming under the dim light. Through twelve years from medical school graduation to becoming an attending physician, returning home after marathon surgeries, I'd always find that white silhouette waiting patiently on the moonlit balcony.
Last autumn, she started resisting when I tried to groom her. During one overnight shift, my neighbor called about persistent meowing. Rushing home, I found Snow dragging her paralyzed hind legs while piling my slippers by the door—her final "emergency kit" for me. The veterinarian said she'd mustered her last strength for this farewell alert.
On the 99th day without Snow, I encountered a special case. An Alzheimer's patient kept talking to empty air until her granddaughter brought a felted cat. "Custom-made from old photos," she said, showing the Feltque creation. "Now Grandma sleeps through the night."
That evening, I finally opened the long-bookmarked Feltque website. Placing my order, I detailed the unique curve of Snow's ear tips, the unconscious twitch of her tail end, and the small burn mark on her left paw from a youthful mischief.
When the package arrived, I hesitated for hours. Only when moonlight again silvered the balcony did I gently open the wooden box. The seated white cat tilted her head as if asking, "Was surgery tough today?" My trembling fingers found the notch on her right ear—a souvenir from her territory battle with a stray. The plush texture under my fingertips felt so familiar, as if time had rewound to countless nights when she'd nuzzle my weary palm.
