15th March
The bus lurched to a halt in the middle of a bustling high street, and the passengers gripped the handrails tighter. Someone cursed under their breath; another pressed their face to the fogged-up window, squinting for the reason behind the stop. The air hummed with irritation and curiosity. The conductor shuffled toward the driver’s cab, swung the door open—then froze, as if she’d stumbled upon something that didn’t belong in the grey, drizzly morning of Manchester.
Outside stood a woman in a frayed red anorak. In one hand, a lead; in the other, a battered umbrella with a bent spoke. At the end of the lead sat a dog—a shaggy, barrel-chested mastiff with its muzzle lowered to the pavement. It didn’t budge, as if carved from stone. Its paws seemed rooted to the tarmac, ears flattened, eyes locked on the ground. No anger, no fear—just a stubborn, weary stillness, like it carried a weight too heavy to put into words.
“He won’t move,” the woman said, her voice wavering. “We were walking, and then—he just sat. Won’t listen, no matter what I do.”
The driver stepped out, eyeing the dog, then the woman, then the dog again. He crouched, meeting its gaze.
“What’s got into you, mate? Tired? Or has life worn you down?”
The mastiff lifted its head slowly. Its eyes held such human sorrow that everyone watching felt a knot tighten in their chest. It didn’t growl or whine—just stared, as if it had lived a lifetime but couldn’t speak. This wasn’t just fatigue. It was pain, dull and hollow, like an echo in an empty house. The driver stood, as if he’d understood the silence.
The bus rolled on a few minutes later. The woman murmured thanks and tugged the dog away. It walked slowly, unsteadily—each step deliberate, as if rediscovering its own legs.
From his seat by the window, James whispered to himself: “That’s me. Stopped dead. Can’t go on.” The words slipped out, soft as a confession he’d held too long.
He got off at the next stop, though his flat was miles away. He walked without purpose, numb to the wind snapping at his collar, past a snow-dusted park where bare branches creaked like old memories.
Home didn’t beckon. The flat was hollow—not just empty of people, but of life itself. The air stale, untouched by voices or movement. Only the fridge’s hum reminded him time still passed, even if he barely did.
James was forty-three. An engineer—reliable, invisible, like a cog in a machine. The sort who never complained, just did what was needed. Not a hero, not a martyr—just a man. Seventeen years of marriage, two kids, a mortgage, holidays at his mother-in-law’s cottage. Then—the crack. His wife left. Said she was suffocating. Said he was like a ghost: there but not alive. No shouting, just quiet resolve.
He didn’t fight it. Just drove to the moors and sat till dawn, listening to the wind howl. Came back. Grew quieter. Lived by routine: work, bills, weekends with the kids. All normal. Yet inside—an emptiness like a derelict house.
Each day, something tightened in his chest. A steel band, cinched until breathing felt like drowning.
Now he walked like that mastiff. Stopped. Couldn’t go on. Not from pain, but pointlessness. The same streets, same faces, same silence. He didn’t want change—just pause. To stop being himself for a moment.
He slumped onto a bench. The air smelled of wet earth and pine—something faintly nostalgic. A teenager passed, blaring a raspy breakup song from a speaker. An elderly couple shuffled by, their slow steps full of quiet affection. James looked away.
*Everyone’s got someone. I’ve got nothing. And it doesn’t even hurt.*
“Excuse me,” a voice piped up. “D’you have a phone? Mine’s dead, and I need to call my sister.”
A girl—maybe eleven—stood before him. Freckled, in a stained puffer jacket, clutching a tattered rucksack.
He handed his phone over. She chattered into it, then returned.
“Ta. Why’re you sitting here alone?”
“Just resting.”
“Hm. You look sad. My neighbour sits like that when his girlfriend in Leeds ignores him. Says he’s lovesick. Who’re you lovesick over?”
The question struck like lightning. His chest ached—proof his heart still worked.
“No one. Why’re you alone?”
“I’m not. Nan’s dozing over there. Went for bread.” She grinned. “Don’t be sad, yeah? Mum says when people sit quiet, they’re sorting themselves out inside. You sorting?”
He nodded, involuntary.
“Yeah.”
“Then you’ll be right.” She dashed off, her rucksack bouncing like a buoy on waves.
James stayed. And for the first time in months, his chest eased—like a gear clicking into place.
He stood. Stretched. Breathed. Walked—not faster, but firmer.
Nothing had changed. No epiphany, no miracle. Just a day. Just a dog. Just a girl.
Sometimes, that’s enough to make living feel possible again.
