When I first laid eyes on her, she was little more than a whisper of a cat—fragile, skittish, and heartbreakingly thin. Her fur clung patchily to her body, and her eyes, though tired, held a flicker of fight. That was the moment I knew I had to bring her home. She was a rescue—neglected, underfed, and forgotten. I named her, gave her a soft bed, and promised her she would never be hungry or unloved again. The first few days were tough. She didn’t trust me at first, and who could blame her? She flinched at sudden movements, hid under furniture, and barely touched her food. But I was patient. I let her set the pace. Gradually, her world began to change. With every gentle word and slow blink, she learned I meant no harm. I remember the first time she purred—a shaky, uncertain sound that felt like music to my ears. Each small milestone was a victory: finishing a full meal, sleeping in the open, letting me stroke her back without recoiling. Her body slowly began to fill out.