Whiskers at the Door

I’ve written a short story, and I’m really excited to share it with you. The heart of this story was sparked by a simple yet powerful phrase: “ministry of presence.” It came to me during a season of deep grief after losing my dad, and somehow, putting stories to paper has helped me with my mental health . Creating has become a quiet space where I can sit with my memories, process pain, and hold onto love. I hope this story brings comfort, reflection, or even just a moment of stillness—just as it did for me.

"Whiskers at the Door"

The old woman sat by the window, wrapped in a blanket that smelled faintly of lavender and time. Her hands, folded neatly in her lap, trembling just slightly. Outside, the wind whispered through the trees like a prayer no one dared speak aloud.

She hadn’t spoken much lately. Not since James passed.

Every morning, like clockwork, the neighborhood cat—no one knew quite where he came from—would appear on her porch. It was a sleek, grey thing with cautious eyes and a tail that curled like a question mark.

She had named him Solomon.

Solomon never let her touch him. If she reached out her hand, his eyes narrowed and back away just enough to remain near, but untouchable. Instead, he would sit. Sometimes on the mat by the door, sometimes on the windowsill, sometimes in the patch of sunlight by the garden’s edge. Always near. Never far.

The old woman started leaving the door open, just a crack. Not to invite him in, but to say you’re welcome, even if you never come.

On the days the ache was too much to carry, when the silence of the house pressed on her like an ocean, Solomon would still be there. His eyes blinked slowly, like he understood more than he let on.

He never meowed. Never asked for food. Never rubbed against her legs or curled in her lap.

He just was.

And in that being, something sacred happened.

She realized she didn’t need him to do anything.

He didn’t need to fix her grief, or speak into her loneliness, or distract her with antics.

He just kept showing up.

That quiet, constant presence did something not even words could. It whispered, You are not alone.

It was the soft ministry of presence.