I wasn’t meant to be on that train.
But after hours of sobbing alone in my car outside my ex’s apartment, I bought the first ticket I could find. I’d almost gone back. Almost. Instead, I threw some things in a bag, wiped away the tears, and told myself I just needed space—air in my lungs, miles under my feet, something to remind me I was still here.
That’s when I saw him.
A golden retriever, sitting upright in his seat like he belonged more than I did. One paw gently placed on the table, tail curled neatly around him like a punctuation mark. His owner was across from him, relaxed and sipping coffee, chatting with someone nearby. But the dog? He was watching me.
Not with idle curiosity. His gaze was focused, quiet, almost knowing. His head tilted slightly, ears alert—as if he could hear the storm I was carrying. Despite everything, I found myself smiling.
“He’s super friendly,” the man said with a shrug, gesturing toward the dog.
I nodded, but I couldn’t look away. That dog looked at me like he understood. Like he’d seen countless women sitting just like I was—tired, raw, holding themselves together with string and breath.
And then he moved.
He stood up, walked straight to me, and gently placed his chin on my knee. His person blinked, surprised. “He doesn’t usually do that,” he said, like it meant something. But the dog didn’t budge. He just stayed there, looking up at me with the kind of calm that cracked something open in my chest.
And suddenly, I was speaking.
Softly, to the dog, I said everything I hadn’t told a soul. The betrayal. The guilt. The ache of staying too long. How I kept confusing love with self-erasure.
When the train arrived at the station, I thought that was the end of it. But the man surprised me.
“You want to come with us?” he asked gently, still scratching behind the dog’s ears. “We’re headed to a cabin near Lake Crescent for the weekend. No pressure—just fresh air and quiet.”
I hesitated. “You don’t even know me.”
He smiled, kind and sure. “Buddy seems to.”
The dog’s tail gave a soft thump against my leg—like a yes.
And somehow, I found myself saying yes too.
The drive was calm, quiet in the best way. His name was Sam. He told me about losing his wife, how Buddy helped him hold it together when everything fell apart. “He has a sense about people who need someone,” Sam said softly. “I think he saw it in you.”
Lake Crescent was like stepping into another world. Still water. Towering trees. A little cabin filled with mismatched chairs and warmth. It was peace I didn’t know I needed.
That night, we ate soup by the fire. And at some point, Sam asked, “So… what brought you here?”