I wasn’t supposed to be on that train.
I’d bought the ticket after crying in my car outside my ex’s apartment, fighting the urge to go back. I told myself I just needed distance. Air. Anything but the gravity of him.
Then I saw the dog.
A golden retriever sat upright across the aisle, dignified, calm, like commuting by rail was his full-time job. His owner sipped coffee. The world looked normal.
But the dog looked at me.
Head tilt. Soft eyes. Locked in.
“He’s friendly,” the man said.
Maybe. But this felt different. It felt like being seen.
A moment later, the dog stood, walked over, and rested his chin on my leg. I started talking before I could stop myself—about the cheating, the humiliation, the thousand almost-forgivenesses.
When the train pulled in, the man hoisted his bag. “Can you hold him a sec? I need something from the luggage car.”
“Sure,” I said.
Passengers left. The platform emptied.
He never came back.
My pulse roared in my ears. Then I noticed the note tucked into the collar.
For whoever he chooses—
I’m not lost. I was meant to find you.
His name is Leo. He carried me through the worst time of my life.
You looked like you needed him.
No one leaves us by accident.
I read it twice. Leo’s tail thumped gently.
I didn’t go back to my ex.
I found a small inn across from the station, shared my sandwich, and slept with Leo’s steady breathing beside me.
For the first time in weeks, I wasn’t drowning.
Sometimes the universe doesn’t send explanations.
Sometimes it sends a dog.
