Back home, the snow was melting. Walter paused on the porch of his small cabin, his breath visible in the cold air. Setting his bag down, he looked at the cat sitting patiently by his boots. “Well,” he said softly, “looks like we made it, Angel.” The cat meowed once, brushing against his leg before darting inside.
The fire crackled as Walter settled into his old chair. Angel leapt onto his lap, curling into the familiar spot over his heart. The room filled with warmth and the steady rhythm of her purr. Within weeks, their story spread across the country. Headlines called her The Blizzard Angel. Cameras came, letters arrived, but Walter didn’t care for attention. He just wanted quiet nights with the small soul who’d saved him. “People say I rescued her,” he told a reporter once, smiling faintly. “But really, she rescued me first.”
That evening, as snow began to fall again outside, Walter drifted into peaceful sleep—a man reborn, guarded by the tiny heart that refused to let his own stop beating.