By the next morning, the storm had turned the world outside into a motionless white desert, but inside, the farmhouse felt warmer than ever. Fiona sat on the rug, gently lifting the smallest of the three—a round, silver puff of fur that felt surprisingly heavy and solid for its size. “You need a name,” she murmured, cradling the kitten against her sweater. As it looked up at her, Fiona felt a rush of pure affection. It was undeniably beautiful, with a face that seemed more expressive than any cat she had ever owned. Its fur was incredibly dense and soft, and its large, round eyes watched her with a calm, steady gaze that felt remarkably soulful.
The kittens were proving to be the most well-behaved guests they had ever hosted. They didn’t scratch the furniture or climb the curtains; instead, they moved through the house at their own deliberate pace, often following John and Fiona from room to room like silent, fluffy shadows. John watched from the doorway as the other two kittens sat patiently by his boots, waiting for him to move. “They’ve got a lot of personality, don’t they?” he said, a rare grin breaking through his beard. Fiona looked up, her eyes bright. “John, look how gentle they are. They’ve already made themselves at home. Do you think… maybe we could keep them?” John knelt down to scratch one behind its wide, low-set ears, feeling the soft vibration of its contentment. “I don’t see why not,” he replied. “They seem to have chosen us.”