It’s been parked behind the old flooring warehouse for years—rusted, wheel-less, half-swallowed by weeds. Most people walk past without even turning their heads. But if you look closely, the back seat breathes.
Blankets. Bowls. Fur.
Cats. At least eight of them.
Nobody claims them. Nobody feeds them. But somehow, they survive.
Some days, you’ll spot a fresh can cracked open on the curb. A half-empty bag of kibble tucked under the passenger seat. The front dashboard always has a towel folded just right, like someone still tucks them in at night.
I asked the clerk at the corner mart. He said, “Oh yeah, the cat car. Been there forever.”
I asked the maintenance guy. He said, “They’re clean cats. They don’t bother nobody.”
That stuck with me.
Because when she said it, she looked down the road, like she expected someone to walk up any second.
I kept thinking about it all that night. Who could they be waiting for? Why leave cats in an old junked car? Why keep feeding them but never show your face?
The next morning, I walked to the warehouse. The air smelled of wet concrete and rust. The car sat there like always, its blue paint barely showing through flakes of brown. The cats blinked at me from the windows. One stretched across the back seat, another leapt onto the hood as if guarding the others.
I crouched and whispered, “Who takes care of you?”
The cats only blinked, tails flicking, eyes reflecting the pale light.
That evening, I brought a small can of tuna and set it by the curb. I didn’t see anyone, but the next morning the can was gone—clean, as though washed and carried away.
It became a routine. Every couple of days I’d leave food. And every time, it vanished by sunrise. The cats grew more curious about me. They began meowing softly when I came near, rubbing against the cracked door frame, watching me with calm, trusting eyes.
But I never saw the other person.Until one night.It was late—nearly midnight. I had trouble sleeping and decided to walk to clear my head. The street was quiet, just the distant hum of a truck on the highway. As I neared the warehouse, I spotted movement. A small figure hunched by the car, a flashlight dimly glowing.
I froze behind a stack of pallets. The figure opened a bag and set down bowls of food, patting each cat on the head. The way they leaned in, the cats knew this person. They weren’t scared—they purred and rubbed against their legs like family.
The figure adjusted the towel on the dashboard, then reached into their pocket. They pulled out a folded paper, slipped it carefully under the wiper blade, and stood there for a long moment, looking at the car.
Then they walked off down the alley, disappearing into the night.
I didn’t chase after them. Something about the way they moved—slow, heavy, like every step carried a weight—made me hesitate.
The next morning, the note was still there.
I don’t know what possessed me, but I slid it out. It was written in shaky handwriting:
“I’ll be back when I can. Take care of them if you see this. Please.”
No name. No explanation. Just that.
I slowed but didn’t stop. She glanced up, and for a brief second, our eyes met. Hers were tired, but there was a sharpness in them, like she’d lived through more than most could handle.
I slowed but didn’t stop. She glanced up, and for a brief second, our eyes met. Hers were tired, but there was a sharpness in them, like she’d lived through more than most could handle.
I wanted to say something. But before I could, she turned, walked into the warehouse lot, and was gone.
Over the next weeks, I tried to catch her again. I left notes tucked under the wiper: “I see you take care of them. Can we talk?” None were answered.
And then the twist came.One rainy night, I saw flashing lights. Two police cars parked near the warehouse. Officers with flashlights combed the area. The cats huddled inside the car, eyes wide. I hurried closer, pretending to be curious like any other bystander.
One officer muttered to the other, “She’s back. Neighbors reported seeing her.”
One officer muttered to the other, “She’s back. Neighbors reported seeing her.”One officer muttered to the other, “She’s back. Neighbors reported seeing her.”The other officer sighed. “She’s not dangerous. Just stubborn. Poor woman’s been living like this since her boy died.”
That made me stop cold.
Her boy?
I lingered until they left, but they didn’t find her. They left behind only wet footprints and whispers.
Later, I pieced it together through town gossip. The woman’s name was Marta. Years ago, her son was in a car accident not far from the warehouse. The very car now filled with cats had once belonged to him.