Did they dump you? after being sacked, she picked up a stray dog on the pavement and walked off with it
On the third morning after losing her job, Emma awoke without an alarm and without any plan for the day.
Right, unemployed, are we up yet? she said to her reflection in the bathroom mirror.
The reflection stayed mute, its expression unchanged.
The kitchen was a hollow void, and her mind echoed the same emptiness. The fridge hummed as if it were trying to fill the silence. The coffee was gone, the toothpaste had run out. Of the essentials only an old throw, a battered umbrella and the stark feeling that her life had been crumbling long before yesterday remained. Yesterday it simply became official.
No tears. Get up and think of something. Maybe a short escape. Just a couple of days.
She dug an ancient travel bag out of the wardrobe the same one shed taken on countless business trips: a torn corner, a zipper that never quite closed, the lingering scent of carpeted hotels. Somehow the familiar wear soothed her.
Three days. Anywhere. Where no one asks questions.
She arrived at the railway station at noon, when the town seemed frozen in its lunch break: the sun hammered her face, people shuffled past, and thoughts drifted into nothing. The next train was due in an hour. The bag felt heavier than it had at home.
And then she saw him.
He sat on a bench like a passenger without a ticket a grey, shaggy dog with eyes dulled like rainwetted laundry. Beside him lay a canvas sack, abandoned and never reclaimed.
Emma approached. The dog didnt move, only shifted his gaze. A scuffed tag dangled from his collar, the words still legible:
If youre reading this please help me get home.
Joke? she asked. Or are you serious?
No answer only a steady breath and a look that seemed to know she would return anyway.
She stepped back, bought a ticket, and settled on a nearby bench. He watched the passersby, but chose none.
What are you waiting for? she said. Got a builtin GPS?
He gave no reaction, only a stare full of quiet hope.
When the train hissed into the platform, Emma rose. The dog didnt follow, but a flick of his ear was enough.
Fine. I dont know where youre headed, but youll ride with me for three days. Well reach a village and sort it out there.
He rose and trotted after her, leashless, unhurried, as if hed always known their paths were now shared.
Inside the carriage the conductor asked:
Dog with you?
Yes.
Paperwork?
For him? Unlikely. I have my passport, though.
Alright. Just keep him quiet.
Hes a silent sort.
The dog settled under the seat, unobtrusive.
Polite fellow, Emma muttered. Dont get attached. Ive got three days and no fantasies.
An hour later she drifted off to sleep; two hours after that she woke to find the dogs head resting on her foot. He slept peacefully, and for the first time in days Emma felt she wasnt alone.
They spent the night in a rented flat Emma found through a familiar network of acquaintances. Two rooms: one with a window, one without. She chose the windowless one; the dog didnt seem to mind.
What shall I call you? she asked.
He stayed silent, eyes locked on hers.
Alright, youll be Dust. Grey, quiet, a bit nosy. Not for long, dont get ahead of yourself.
The next morning the bus to the village left early, so Emma decided to walk. Dust padded ahead, occasionally pausing to ensure she was still following.
The roadside stretched with lone trees, occasional cars whooshing by. Emma realized she hadnt walked like this, aimlessly and without a timetable, in ages.
At one point Dust veered off.
Im not going that way, Emma called, but he didnt look back.
A couple of minutes later he returned, sitting beside her as if to say, Alright, well follow your road.
They slipped into a roadside café: packet soup, tea in a glass mug, stale bread that still smelled of the fridge. Dust ate only after her invitation, delicately.
Where did you learn such manners? she asked.
He gave no reply, only tensed when a man in a red jacket entered the room.
By evening they were back in the flat. Dust curled at the doorway, Emma sank onto a dark sofa.
Youre odd. Calm. As if youve done this before.
He sighed heavily, as if bearing his own history, but words failed him.
Later, tucked under a blanket, Emma reflected on the last time someone had simply walked beside her in silence, demanding nothing. She drifted off, and no dream visited her.
At sunrise Dust waited at the door, ready to go. Emma threw on a coat and realised she didnt even consider returning to the city. For now she was simply following him, and that felt enough.
When they finally reached the village, Emma felt as though the place had been waiting for them for years. The lane seemed to know their steps, and old fences straightened themselves as if to allow passage.
A cottage stood on the outskirts, its gate painted with flaking white paint, a weatherworn mailbox, a roof that might give way to the first strong wind, and a rickety stool by the door. Emma slipped the key into the lock, inhaled the scent of dust, timber and longforgotten years, and a strange feeling washed over her as if shed returned to a version of herself that had been lost long ago.
Dust lingered at the gate, glanced back, then turned down a grassovergrown path through a broken fence.
Hey, where are you off to? Emma called.
He didnt look back.
Seriously? Weve walked three days together and now youre saying thats it? Not happening.
She followed. He moved with the confidence of someone who remembered every dip, every ditch, every bent field.
They arrived at a modest house, almost hidden, with a crooked chimney, wooden shutters and a plaque reading Lake ViewLane3. On the fence hung a faded note, still legible:
The owner is dead. House closed. Questions ask Mrs. Margaret, the third house on the left.
Emma turned to Dust.
This is it? Was this what you were hunting?
The dog simply sat, silent, as if waiting for her to understand on her own.
They walked to Mrs. Margarets cottage. She was a woman in her seventies, apron faded to pastel, moving with swift hands and speaking in a soft but assured tone.
Oh, Pash Rest his soul, she said. He was a good man. Quiet, but his dog was like family. Is this his dog? I thought hed vanished.
He came on his own, Emma replied. Theres a tag on his collar: Help me get home.
The old lady squinted.
Before he passed, he asked me to make a tag. Said, Masha, I feel hell go looking. I did. The next day Pash died.
The dog had vanished shortly after the funeral. Mrs. Margaret dabbed her eyes with the edge of her apron and whispered:
This dog was special. Even when sad he was mute. When happy, he seemed to know that joy is quiet.
That night Emma spread a blanket over the cottage floor, brewed tea in a tarnished kettle, and Dust settled at the doorway.
You knew where we were going, didnt you? she asked.
The house smelled of wood, earth and something familiar. Emma lit a lamp, pulled out a photo album, and recalled her grandmothers words: If a person feels lonely, a pet gives them someone to be silent with. She realized she no longer wanted to return to her previous life.
In the dark, Dust disappeared, only to return an hour later, drenched, muddy, a cracked photo album clenched in his jaws. Emma opened it the first page showed a man in his fifties standing beside the same grey dog. The caption read: Do not disturb. Weve been everywhere. Further pages chronicled their life, and one spread displayed the collar tag with the same plea: If youre reading this please help me get home. Below, a note: If Im gone go while someone still hears.
The next day Emma bought a hammer, paint, dog food and began fixing the cottage. Dust claimed a chair by the window, occasionally wandering off and returning with trophies. One afternoon he dragged in a rusted bus stop sign. Emma laughed:
Archivist, youre something else.
A few weeks later a vet visited, examined Dust: eight years old, sturdy, a healed leg fracture. He said the dog had many years left. Dust spent long evenings by the door, as if keeping watch.
A month after that Emma wrote a letter to her former city self, exhausted and weary:
You did well leaving. If you ever think of returning, ask why. Here I breathe differently. Here is Dust. Here is me. Living.
She burned the letter in the garden, and the dog rested his head on her boot.
She still didnt know if she would stay forever, but she walked onward, no longer haunted by the sense of being lost.
