My mother passed away from cancer just weeks before Christmas, and in the quiet she left behind, her black cat, Cole, became my anchor. He had been her constant companion through every treatment, curling against her chest as if guarding her heartbeat. After the funeral, he followed me from room to room, silent and watchful, sharing my grief in a way no words could. The house felt frozen in time—half-unpacked ornaments, lights she had hung too early, promises I had made to decorate the tree even though my heart wasn’t ready. Cole was the last living piece of her warmth, and I held onto him as if letting go would mean losing her all over again.
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