Did they ditch you? you ask as you pick up a stray dog on the pavement and head off
On the third morning after being made redundant, Emma Clarke wakes without an alarm and with no plans at all.
Alright, unemployed lot, up yet? she says to her reflection in the bathroom mirror.
The mirror stays silent, its expression unchanged.
The kitchen is empty, her mind just as barren. The fridge hums, as if trying to fill the silence. The last of the coffee is gone, as is the toothpaste. All that remains from the essentials are an old knitted blanket, a battered umbrella and a clear feeling that her life has been unraveling not yesterday but for far longeryesterday simply makes it official.
No tears. Get up and think of something. Maybe a short break. Just a few days away.
She pulls an ageing travel bag from the wardrobe, the same one she used for countless business trips: the corner is frayed, the zipper sticks, it smells faintly of hotel carpet. Oddly, the sight of it steadies her a little.
Three days. Somewhere nobody asks questions.
She reaches the railway station at noon, when the town is caught in its lunch lull: the sun beats down, commuters shuffle past, and her thoughts drift aimlessly. The next train is due in an hour. The bag feels heavier than it did at home.
Then she sees him.
Hes perched on a bench like a passenger without a ticket. Grey, shaggy, his eyes dull as washedout laundry after a rainstorm. Beside him lies a canvas sack, abandoned and never reclaimed.
Emma steps closer. The dog doesnt move, only shifts his gaze. A worn tag hangs from his collar, still legible:
If youre reading this, please help me get home.
Joke? she asks. Or are you serious?
Theres no answerjust a steady breath and a look that says he knows shell return.
Emma backs away, buys a ticket and sits on a nearby bench. He watches everyone pass, but chooses no one.
What are you waiting for? she says. Got a builtin GPS?
He offers no reaction, only a stare full of quiet hope.
When the train pulls in, Emma stands. The dog doesnt follow, but nudges his ear forwarda small gesture enough.
Fine. I dont know where youre headed, but for three days you come with me. Well reach a village and sort it out there.
He rises and trots after her, leashless, unhurried, as if hes known this shared route for years.
In the carriage the conductor asks:
Dog with you?
Yes.
Documents?
For him? Doubtful. Ive got my passport.
Alright then, just keep him quiet.
Hes a silent sort.
The dog curls up under the seat, motionless, unobtrusive.
Polite fellow, Emma murmurs. Dont get used to it. Ive only got three days and no fantasies.
An hour later she dozes, and two hours after that wakes to find his head resting on her foot. He sleeps soundly, and for the first time in days Emma feels she isnt alone.
They spend the night in a rented flat Emma secures through an old network of acquaintances. Two rooms: one with a window, one without. She picks the windowless one; the dog doesnt mind.
Whats your name? she asks.
He stays silent, eyes locked on hers.
Alright, youll be Dust. Grey, quiet, a bit clingy. But only while were here, dont get ahead of yourself.
The next morning the coach to the village leaves early. Emma decides to walk. Dust leads, pausing now and then to make sure she follows.
Along the lane, trees line the road, occasional cars whoosh past. Emma realizes she hasnt walked without a schedule in ages.
At a crossroads Dust veers off.
Im not going that way, Emma calls, but he doesnt look back.
A few minutes later he returns, standing beside her as if to say, Fine, well stick to your path.
They duck into a roadside café: instant soup, tea in a glass mug, bread that still smells of the bakerys cooling ovens. Dust only eats when Emma offers, and does so politely.
Where did you learn that etiquette? she jokes.
He offers no answer, only tenses when a man in a bright red jacket strides in.
By evening they return to the flat. Dust settles by the door, Emma sinks onto the couch in the dim light.
Youre odd. Calm. Like youve done this a hundred times before.
He lets out a heavy sigh, as if carrying his own story, but words fail him.
Later, tucked under a blanket, Emma wonders when she last had someone walk beside her in silence, asking for nothing. She drifts off, dreaming of nothing at all.
Morning finds Dust at the doorway, ready to go. Emma throws on her coat and realises she isnt thinking about heading back to the city. For now she simply follows him, and that feels enough.
When they finally reach the village, it seems as though the lane has been waiting for them. Old hedges straighten as if to welcome a passerby, and weatherworn fences tilt just enough to let them through.
A modest cottage sits on the outskirts, its gate painted a peeling blue, a battered mailbox, a roof that might give way under a strong gust, and a rickety stool by the door. Emma slides the key into the lock, inhales dust, timber and decades, and a strange sensation washes over herlike returning to a version of herself she thought shed lost.
Dust doesnt enter the house. He halts at the gate, flashes a glance, then darts down a weedchoked path through a broken fence.
Hey, where are you off to? Emma calls.
He doesnt look back.
Seriously? Weve trekked three days and now youre see you later? Not happening.
She follows, his steps confident as if he remembers every dip, every pothole, every leaning field.
They emerge at a tiny, almost hidden house with a crooked chimney, wooden shutters and a sign reading Lake View Close, 3. On the fence hangs a faded note, still legible:
Owner deceased. House closed. Queries to Mrs. Margaret Hughes, fifth door on the left.
Emma turns to Dust.
This the place? Was this what you were looking for?
He simply sits, silent, waiting for her to piece it together.
Mrs. Hughes appearsa woman in her seventies, apron faded, movements swift, voice soft yet firm.
Oh, Jack May he rest in peace, she says. He was a good man. Not a man of many words, but his dog was like family. Thisyour dog? Its been a while.
Emma nods. His collar says, Help me get home.
The old lady squints.
Before he passed, he asked me to make that tag. Said he felt the dog would go looking. I did. The next day Jack died.
It turns out the dog vanished after the funeral. Mrs. Hughes wipes a tear with the edge of her apron and whispers:
This ones special. When he was sad he kept quiet. When he was happy he seemed to know quiet joy.
That night Emma spreads the blanket over the cottages old sofa, brews tea in a chipped pot. Dust curls at the threshold.
You knew the way, didnt you? she asks.
The house smells of pine, earth and something homelike. Emma lights a lamp, pulls out an album, recalls her grandmothers words: If a person feels lonely, a animal gives them someone to be silent with. She realises she no longer wants to return to the frantic city life.
Later Dust disappears, reappears an hour later, drenched, mudcaked, a torn photo album clamped in his jaws. Emma opens itfirst page shows a man in his fifties with the same dog at his feet, their cottage and a sign: Do not disturb. Weve been everywhere. Further pages chronicle their life, and one photo displays the same collar with the plea: If youre reading this, please help me get home. Scribbled beneath: If Im gone, go on before anyone hears.
The next day Emma buys a hammer, paint, dog food and begins fixing the cottage. Dust claims the window seat, wanders out and returns with trophies. One day he brings a rusted bus stop sign. Emma laughs:
Youre the archivist.
A few weeks later a vet visits, examines Dust: eight years old, sturdy, old fracture in a leg. He says the dog has many years left. Dust then spends long hours by the door, as if guarding.
A month on, Emma writes a letter to her former city self, exhausted and weary:
You did well to leave. If you ever think of returning, ask why. Here I breathe differently. Heres Dust. Heres me. Alive.
She burns the letter in the garden, and the dog rests his nose on her boot.
She doesnt know if shell stay forever, but she walks on now without the hollow feeling of being lost.
