We thought she was gone.

The fire had already swallowed most of the second floor by the time we got the call. A warehouse—empty,

supposedly. Just a leftover shell filled with forgotten boxes and bad insulation.

Turned out, not everything inside was forgotten.

He was the first one through the smoke. Duffield—helmet #31, the guy with the mustache who never says much

but always shows up. A minute passed. Then three. Just when the chief was about to call him back, he emerged—coughing, covered in soot…

…and holding the tiniest, shivering kitten under his jacket.

She was singed, shaking, scared out of her mind—but alive.

He wrapped her in a towel and sat with her the entire ride back to the station. Didn’t let anyone else near her. Said, “She’s had enough strangers for one day.”

We figured he’d take her to a vet. Maybe drop her at a shelter.

But that night, she curled up in his helmet and fell asleep.

The next morning, she rode his shoulder like she belonged there.

She’s been with us ever since. Eats from his lunchbox. Sleeps in his locker. Hops up on his shoulder every time the alarm bell rings, like she’s making sure he comes back.

But here’s the part nobody talks about—

She only purrs when he’s holding her.

And there’s one spot on her tiny paw that’s forever blackened, like a little smudge of ash that won’t wash away.

He calls it her reminder.

But every now and then, I catch him staring at it.

Like he’s the one who needs it.

Duffield, we learned, wasn’t just a stoic firefighter. He was a man carrying a weight, a quiet grief that settled in the corners of his eyes. We learned it bit by bit, through shared coffee breaks and late-night calls. He had lost his daughter, a little girl named Lily, in a house fire years ago. It had changed him, turned him into a man of few words and constant vigilance.