I recently worked with a client to create a small memorial space inside their home—a warm, quiet corner filled with flowers, soft colors, and gentle light.
It wasn’t just a design project; it was something far more personal. They wanted a place where memory could settle, where absence could feel a little less empty, and where love—quiet, ordinary, everyday love—could have a home.
The story behind this space stayed with me long after our meeting. And with their permission, I’m sharing it here.
When I moved out of London and settled in Redland, Bristol, I thought the hardest part would be adjusting to the slower pace.
But the real challenge was learning how to live with the quiet.
For the first time in years, I was properly living alone. No partner. No flatmates wandering in and out of the kitchen. And no cat waiting behind the door when I came home.
Just a quiet flat, a kettle that clicks a little too loudly, and an alarm that rings every morning whether I’m ready for it or not. Evenings quickly fell into a familiar rhythm: dropping my keys into the tray by the door, making a simple dinner, taking a warm shower, scrolling through my phone, and finally letting the flat go dark around me.
Weekends became strangely shapeless. There were mornings when I’d wake up and genuinely struggle to tell if it was early Saturday or late Sunday. Last night, while sorting through my camera roll, I found an old photo of Milo.
He was curled up on top of the duvet, his tiny body forming the smallest, softest hill. And for a moment, it felt like a memory had suddenly regained its weight. I had a cat. A cat who used to rush to the door the moment he heard my keys. A cat who burrowed under my covers on cold mornings, purring so loudly it felt like he was warming the entire room. A cat who made every ordinary day feel less empty. Living alone here, I’ve been slowly learning how to sit with that absence.
How to let memories come without bracing myself. How to keep moving forward without closing the door on the past. I know the mark he left won’t fade. Some things aren’t meant to.
So I decided to make a small corner in my flat just for Milo—a framed photo, his old collar, and the spot of sunlight that hits the wall every afternoon. A place where I can see him every day. A reminder that he was here, and that I’m doing alright. I found Milo behind my old building in Hackney. It was a cold, miserable evening, the kind where rain doesn’t fall so much as cling to everything.
He was huddled under a hedge, completely soaked, trembling but somehow still holding on.
When I picked him up, he hooked his tiny paw into my sleeve, as if asking not to be left there. I held onto him, and he held onto me.
The months that followed were stitched together with small, imperfect, beautiful moments: Milo finally managing to climb onto the back of the sofa without slipping; Milo knocking over my plants with utter confidence; Milo planting himself on my laptop whenever I tried to work from home; and the quiet mornings when he’d fall asleep on the windowsill, letting the sunlight warm his fur.
If cats really go somewhere after they leave us, I hope Milo’s place isn’t anything like the city—not cold, not rainy, not lonely.
I hope he’s somewhere soft, somewhere warm, somewhere with tall grass and flowers that never stop blooming. A place where he never has to shiver through another storm again.
Designing this space reminded me that remembrance doesn’t always need grand gestures. Sometimes it’s a photo catching the afternoon sun, a collar resting quietly on a shelf, or a corner filled with flowers that bloom long after the moment has passed.
This memorial wasn’t built to hold grief—it was built to hold warmth. A place where love continues in its own soft way. And I hope that every time my client walks past it, they feel not just what they lost, but everything they were lucky enough to have.
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