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I was never supposed to be on that train.
The night before, I’d found myself outside my ex’s apartment, numb from the cold and from everything I refused to feel. It had started as one of those long, pleading conversations—the kind where you think maybe, just maybe, you can still piece the broken parts back together. But deep down, I knew I was clinging to something already gone. That relationship had been unraveling for a long time. What hurt most wasn’t the ending—it was that I’d lost myself somewhere in the middle of it all. I stood out there far too long, the weight of it all finally crashing down on me.
Something snapped. Or maybe something finally broke open. Either way, I found myself at the train station at dawn, eyes puffy from crying, heart hollow, spirit exhausted. I didn’t even care where I was going—I just needed to move, to breathe, to not feel so stuck. I bought the first outbound ticket I could find. I didn’t check the destination. I just needed away.
That’s when I saw him—a golden retriever, sitting beside a man near the far bench on the platform. His coat glowed like honey in the early morning light, and his eyes—those calm, amber eyes—locked with mine like he somehow already knew me. There was something deeply grounding about him, like he could see the storm inside me but wasn’t afraid of it.
I sat nearby, still unsure whether I was running from something or toward something. Then the dog stood, walked straight over to me, and gently rested his head on my leg. I froze, overwhelmed. His person looked over, eyebrows raised. “That’s... unexpected,” he said. “Buddy doesn’t usually do that.”
But Buddy didn’t move. He just stayed there, breathing slowly, silently anchoring me.
For the first time in what felt like forever, I let my guard down. Words tumbled out. I whispered to him about the breakup, the guilt, the way I’d bent myself out of shape trying to make someone love me. I told him about how lost I felt, how small. And all the while, Buddy simply listened, his presence quiet and unwavering, like he was holding space for me to fall apart without judgment.
His person—Sam—watched for a while, then sat down across from us. “We’re headed to a cabin near Lake Crescent for the weekend,” he said gently. “Just a quiet place in the woods. You’re welcome to come along. No pressure—just… Buddy seems to think you’re worth showing up for.”
I almost said no. I’d just left everything behind, and the thought of trusting a stranger felt wild. But then Buddy looked up at me with those eyes again, and I realized I’d never felt safer. Maybe it was exhaustion, or maybe it was something deeper—a sense that I was being offered a kind of refuge. I said yes.
The cabin was tucked away near the lake, surrounded by towering evergreens and wrapped in a kind of silence that felt sacred. It was the kind of place where your breath slows down and your thoughts start to make sense. We spent the weekend walking along misty trails, sitting by the fire, and watching the way sunlight danced on the water. I told Sam more of my story in pieces—how I’d stopped writing, how I’d poured all my love into someone else and left none for myself. He listened without trying to fix me.
“Sometimes,” he said one evening as we sipped tea under a blanket of stars, “the bravest thing you can do is walk away.”
Buddy let out a soft bark, as if seconding the sentiment.
When I left that weekend, I wasn’t healed. But something inside me had shifted. I felt a little lighter. A little more like myself. Before I boarded the train back, Sam pressed a folded note into my hand. Inside was a quote: *“Courage doesn’t always roar. Sometimes it’s the quiet voice at the end of the day saying, ‘I will try again tomorrow.’”*
Back home, I didn’t rush to fix everything. I didn’t pretend I was okay. But I started writing again. Little things at first—thoughts in the margins of my journal, fragments of poetry, reflections. Each word was a step back to myself.
Weeks passed. One morning, I saw a social media post from a local shelter—there was a photo of Sam and Buddy volunteering at an adoption event. My heart skipped. Without thinking twice, I went. The moment I stepped into the space, Buddy saw me—and ran like no time had passed, tail wagging furiously, eyes sparkling. He remembered.
I began volunteering too. I spent my weekends walking dogs, cleaning kennels, comforting anxious animals. And in helping them, I started healing. I felt purposeful again, connected. The simple act of showing up—for them, for myself—became a kind of therapy I didn’t know I needed.
Months later, Sam invited me to join him on another trip. No hesitation this time. I said yes.
Looking back, I realize now that Buddy wasn’t just a dog. He was something else entirely. A quiet companion. A guide in golden fur. He taught me that healing doesn’t always come in grand gestures—it often arrives in the silent moments, in the steady presence of those who expect nothing and offer everything.
He showed me that it’s okay to fall apart. That there’s strength in vulnerability, and hope in connection. That sometimes, all it takes to begin again is a warm gaze, an open heart, and a wagging tail.
That train ride wasn’t an escape—it was the beginning of coming home.