I first saw him outside a 24-hour laundromat, lying on a torn camping mat with a small orange cat curled on his chest. His shoes were held together with duct tape; his “backpack” was a black trash bag. I didn’t know his name then, or the cat’s. I started bringing them food from the café where I worked. He never asked, always made sure the cat ate first. One night, I sat with him and learned her name was Hazel, and she had chosen him. He told me how he’d left shelters because Hazel wasn’t allowed. “She’s my reason,” he said.

Then one day they vanished. Days later, I found Hazel alone by a bus stop. She was thinner but came to me easily. I took her in, tried to find him, but no luck. Weeks later, a woman told me the man’s name was Martin. He’d collapsed near train tracks and was hospitalized. I found him in the hospital, weak and unconscious. When he woke, he asked for Hazel. I brought her in, and she curled beside him. Martin recovered slowly. A charity helped him get a pet-friendly studio apartment, where Hazel settled in like a queen.

His estranged family found him after seeing Hazel’s photo online, and they reunited. Now Martin volunteers at the shelter that once denied him entry because of Hazel. And I still drop by with muffins, watching how one small act—bringing food to a man and his cat—changed everything. Because Hazel chose Martin. And he never stopped choosing her.