He walked the same route every morning—dark coat, neat cap, quiet smile. No one knew his name. Just that he came with a plastic dish of food, and a small army of cats would flock to him like he was their king.

We called him “The Cat Baba.”

Most people barely noticed. Street cats are just part of the background in this part of town. But I started seeing him more closely during my morning commute—same time, same bench near the simit cart, same soft hums as he called them in.

One day, out of curiosity, I followed from a distance.

He knelt slowly, offering the orange dish. Cats circled, meowed, nudged his legs. He spoke to them like old friends. And just as I was about to turn away… I saw it.

His other hand reached into his coat pocket—not for food.

For paper.

Tiny, folded envelopes. Each with a name scribbled in careful, shaking handwriting.

He pulled one out, kissed it gently, and tucked it beneath a stone by the bench.

He did the same thing the next day. And the next.

Finally, one chilly Thursday, I sat beside him and asked, “Why the letters?”

He looked at me, smiled faintly, and said, “They’re not just cats, son. They’re carrying messages to her.”

“To who?” I asked, heart thudding.

He looked out past the rooftops, eyes glassy.

And then, he told me something I still can’t explain—

“She loved cats,” he said softly. “My wife, Yasemin. She said if she ever had to go first, she’d come back as one. Not just one cat—many. She said she’d spread herself out, so I’d never be too lonely.”

I sat there, stunned. “And you believe she did?”

He nodded. “I don’t just believe it. I know. I see her in them. In the way they look at me. In how they come when I call, even the new ones. Every time I write her a letter, one of them watches like they already know what’s inside.”

I didn’t know what to say to that.

But I came back the next day. And the next.

We started talking more. His name was Hüseyin. He’d lived in that neighborhood for over thirty years. Retired electrician. Loved sunflower seeds. Hated tea. Every morning at 7:00, rain or shine, he fed the cats. Every morning, he wrote a letter to Yasemin.

“They’re short,” he told me. “Just a few lines. What I dreamt about. What I ate. What the butcher said. I know it sounds silly. But I promised I’d never stop talking to her.”

It didn’t sound silly to me.

One morning, I asked if I could read one of the letters. He hesitated, then handed me the smallest envelope.

I opened it carefully. It read:

“My dearest Yasi, the rose you planted is blooming again. Third spring without you, but it still smells like you’re nearby. The orange kitten chased a leaf all morning—it reminded me of how you laughed at cartoons. I miss that sound.”

My throat tightened.

“They’re beautiful,” I said.

He smiled. “Not as beautiful as she was.”

I started bringing him tea—apple tea, since he liked that better. In exchange, he’d tell me more stories.

Like how they met at a bus stop when she scolded him for smoking too close to her dog.

Or how she once bought ten kilos of cat food with their vacation money because a litter had been abandoned nearby.

“She had a soft spot for anything lost,” he said. “Even me.”

I asked if they had children.

He shook his head. “We tried. Life had other plans. She used to say we didn’t need kids—we had each other and half the neighborhood’s animals.”

Weeks passed.

One morning, I noticed there were more cats than usual. At least fifteen. They waited patiently as he set the food down. Then one by one, they approached him, not in a rush, but gently—like they understood.

That day, he didn’t place a letter under the stone.

Instead, he looked at me and said, “I think she’s preparing me.”

“For what?”

He patted his coat pocket. “To stop writing. Maybe to join her.”

I didn’t like the way that sounded.

“Come on, Baba,” I said. “You’re strong. You’ve got time.”

He gave a small chuckle. “Even cats know when the sun is setting.”

That night, I couldn’t sleep. I thought about what he’d said. How quiet his voice had gotten. How pale his hands looked.

The next morning, I went earlier than usual.

But he wasn’t there.

No cats either.

I waited until 8. Then 9. I called out his name. Nothing.

Finally, I walked over to the bench. There, beneath the stone, was a letter.

But this one wasn’t like the others. It wasn’t folded. It wasn’t addressed to Yasemin.

It had my name.

“For the young man who listened.”

Hands shaking, I opened it.

“Son, if you’re reading this, then I didn’t make it today. Don’t be sad. I’ve had a good run, and she’s waited long enough. The cats—they’ll need someone. You don’t have to write letters. Just feed them. Talk to them. They’ll know. And maybe someday, when you miss someone too much, you’ll see them in a pawprint, or a purr, or a pair of green eyes. Thank you for believing me.”

I read it three times before I could breathe again.

I went straight to the police station, then to the local clinic. No one had reported anything.

Later that afternoon, I found out he’d passed quietly in his sleep.

No drama. No hospital.

Just a note on his nightstand, addressed to Yasemin.

The cats kept coming.

At first, they’d look around, waiting. Some even meowed louder, like calling for him.

I took over his morning walks. Bought the same orange dish. Wrote a few letters of my own, though not as poetic.

Every once in a while, a cat would nudge my hand, then sit very still beside the stone, as if keeping watch.

Word spread.

People started leaving bits of food. A woman from the bakery made tiny loaves. Kids drew pictures of him surrounded by cats.

Someone painted a mural near the bench—his face, his cap, and a dozen colorful cats with wings.

Tourists began asking, “Who was the Cat Baba?”

I always tell them the same thing.

“He was a man who loved deeply, and kept a promise.”

About a year later, something happened I still don’t understand.

One morning, while setting food down, a sleek white cat I’d never seen before rubbed against my leg and dropped something at my feet.

It was a tiny photo—faded and bent at the corners.

I picked it up.

It was of Hüseyin and a woman, laughing on a picnic blanket. Her eyes were closed, but her smile lit up the whole frame.

I’d never seen a picture of Yasemin before. But somehow, I knew it was her.

The cat sat down beside the stone, curled its tail, and looked up at me like, Now you know.

It never came back after that.

I keep the photo in my wallet.

The stone is still there.

The letters stopped after a while—not because I forgot, but because I started talking to them in my head instead.

Sometimes, when life gets heavy, I still go to that bench.

And every so often, a cat I don’t recognize will walk over, sit beside me, and stare off at the sky, just like he used to.

And I wonder—are they still sending letters?

Maybe not with paper.

Maybe with presence. With love that lingers. With soft pawsteps that echo the ones we miss.

I’ve learned something important through all this.

Love doesn’t vanish. It shifts form. It hides in small corners. In street cats. In old benches. In strangers who care enough to listen.

If you’re lucky, it even finds its way back to you.

So if you ever see someone feeding cats with too much tenderness in their eyes, sit with them.

You might hear a story that changes you.

And maybe, just maybe, you’ll feel someone you’ve lost purring close by.

If this story touched your heart, share it. Maybe someone out there needs a little reminder that love—real love—never really leaves. 💛