He didn’t ask for anything.
He sat quietly on the train as people rushed by with coffee and busy thoughts, his coat zipped up, hands gently holding a tiny sleeping kitten.
Most passengers didn’t notice him. But I did.
Not because of the kitten — but because of what she wore on her head:
a small paper napkin, folded into a crown.
I smiled and asked softly, “Did you make that?”
He looked up, almost shy, and smiled.
“She’s a queen,” he said. “She just forgot for a while.”
I sat beside him, and we talked for two stops.
He told me she had appeared in an alley two weeks ago — thin, wet, barely alive. He wasn’t sure she would survive.
“But I kept telling her, ‘You’re royalty, little one. You don’t belong to the streets.’”
Each day, he fed her scraps, brushed her tangled fur with a found comb, and whispered stories of castles and courage.
“I thought… if I treated her like a queen, maybe she’d believe it.”
Then he looked out the window.
“We all forget who we are sometimes. Even the strongest need reminding.”
When my stop came, I stood up.
He nodded, and the kitten — still wearing her crown — stretched in his arms like she truly owned the train.