I was never meant to be on that train. After a tearful night outside my ex’s apartment,
clinging to a relationship I should’ve let go, I hit a breaking point. On impulse, I bought
the first ticket out of town—destination unknown—just to breathe again. That’s when I saw the dog.
A golden retriever, calm and dignified, locked eyes with me. Something about him felt grounding.
When he walked over and rested his head on my leg, his person was surprised—“He doesn’t usually do that.” But Buddy stayed,
like he knew I was unraveling. I found myself quietly telling him everything—the heartbreak, the shame,
the way I’d lost myself. And he just listened. Then, the man—Sam—invited me to a cabin by Lake Crescent for the weekend.
“No pressure,” he said. “Buddy seems to think you’re okay.” Maybe it was exhaustion or maybe the dog’s silent kindness,
but I said yes. The cabin was peaceful,
