“You met her first, so off you go with her,” said Greg to the dog. “I’ll miss you.”
The train slowed to a crawl, passengers already queueing by the doors. Outside, the platform lights glared harshly as blurred figures shuffled past the windows, now moving slower and slower. Finally, with a jolt and a shudder, the train stopped. The doors clattered open, and out poured the crowd—lugging shopping bags, rucksacks, and a lifetime’s worth of exhaustion—onto the grubby, well-trodden platform of a small station outside London.
People stretched their stiff legs and chattered as they shuffled toward the exit. Greg stepped off last. No one was waiting for him. There was no hurry, really. Just his rented flat—more of a glorified cupboard, really—where he only crashed at night.
A few months ago, he’d finalised the divorce, left the house to his ex-wife and their newborn daughter, and moved somewhere cheaper. Then he’d met a woman, dated briefly, and called it off—mutual, no hard feelings. Three months later, she’d turned up with a bump, announcing she was pregnant. He proposed marriage. Four months later, she had a healthy baby girl.
Tearfully, she admitted she’d been seeing someone else before him—a man who’d bolted the moment she mentioned the pregnancy. Then Greg had come along. She couldn’t face moving back to her hometown. What was he supposed to do, toss her out? Greg couldn’t stomach that. So he left. Filed for divorce.
Now he worked nearly every day, saving for a new place. A mate had started a renovation crew and roped Greg in. Flats, houses, the odd posh country home—anything to keep busy.
Greg ambled toward the dimly lit stairwell. At the bottom, a ginger mutt sat watching him, then glanced back up at the platform.
“Nobody left up there. Owner didn’t show, huh? Maybe he’ll catch the last train,” Greg muttered, turning away.
A few steps later, he glanced back. The dog had climbed the stairs, scanning the platform. The train rumbled away. The dog whined, watching it go, then trotted down and planted itself in front of Greg with a questioning tilt of its head.
“What’s the plan, mate? Waiting for the next one, or coming with me? Won’t ask twice,” Greg said, turning on his heel.
The dog hesitated, then followed—first at a distance, then falling into step beside him.
“Lonely, eh? I get it. Who’s your bloke, anyway? Never seen you around before—then again, I’m new here too…”
The dog trotted along, listening. Soon they reached Greg’s red-brick four-story flat. The dog paused at the door.
“Coming in? My treat. Got food. Maybe a nap. Your call.” Greg held the door open.
The dog padded inside with deliberate dignity.
“Not exactly low-maintenance, are you?” Greg chuckled, letting the door swing shut.
The hallway was dim, lit by a single feeble bulb.
“Third floor. No lift, sorry. Enjoy the cardio,” Greg joked as they climbed.
The dog bounded ahead, stopping on each landing to wait. Greg fished out his keys at his door.
“Home sweet home. Well? In or out?” He flipped the light on.
The dog hesitated, then strode in and sat politely by the coat rack.
“Classy. Respect. But if you’re staying, make yourself at home.” Greg dumped his bag and headed to the kitchen.
The dog settled in the hallway, ears pricking at every sound. Then—clinking dishes, the smell of reheated pasta. It swallowed hard, stood, and followed the scent.
“Knew you’d crack.” Greg pulled out a second bowl, filled it, and set it by the sink.
The dog sniffed, inhaled the food, then polished the bowl clean. It sat back, staring.
“That’s it, pal. Didn’t exactly plan for a guest.” When the dog glanced at the tap, Greg snorted. “Right. Water.” He rinsed the bowl and filled it. The dog slurped noisily, splashing everywhere.
Later, Greg sprawled on the sofa watching telly. The dog curled at his feet, head on its paws—though every tiny noise made its ears twitch.
“Relax. Day’s over,” Greg said, switching off the TV.
Yawning, he stood. The dog sprang up too.
“Sorry, gotta fold this out. Bedtime.”
The dog backed off, nails clicking on the floor.
“Where’d you learn manners like that? Wish you could tell me your name.”
Once the sofa-bed was ready, the dog trotted to the hallway.
“You can stay in here, you know,” Greg called. No response. “Suit yourself.” He flicked the light off.
Half-asleep, he heard shuffling, faint whines. Morning light stabbed his eyes. More rustling from the hall.
Blinking, he remembered the dog. He stumbled out in his boxers. The dog sat by the door.
“Oh. Forgot you were here. Know the way out?” Greg opened the door. The dog bolted downstairs.
“Door!” Greg realised belatedly, but heard the front entrance slam below.
After a shower, Greg slapped together two sandwiches, boiled the kettle, threw on a jacket, and clomped downstairs in slippers. The dog sat by the entrance.
“Fancy breakfast?” Greg jerked his head toward the flat.
The dog didn’t hesitate, racing inside and waiting by the door upstairs.
This time, it beelined for the kitchen and demolished its share. They left together, walking to the station.
“Go on, roam. I’ve got work. Waiting for me later? No hard feelings if not.” Greg ruffled the dog’s ears and crossed to the opposite platform.
That evening, he stepped off the train last, wondering if the dog would be there—or if its real owner had shown. But there it was, tail wagging at the sight of him.
“Still no owner, eh? Or were you waiting for me?” Greg scratched its head. “Let’s go, then.”
Next morning at the station, Greg crouched. “Listen, I won’t be back tonight. Maybe a couple days. Catch you later, yeah?” He stood, heading for the platform. The dog watched him go.
Work ran late—his boss wanted the house finished. Two days later, exhausted and starving, Greg stepped onto the empty platform. No dog in sight. “Found its owner, I guess,” he thought, trudging home.
Seeing the empty bowl on the kitchen floor sharpened the loneliness. He’d grown fond of the clever mutt. That night, he woke to silence. No shuffling, no whines. He rolled over.
His alarm blared what felt like minutes later. Every muscle ached, but there was another job. Not hungry. He washed the dog’s bowl, drank straight from the kettle, and left.
On the platform, amid the commuters, he spotted the ginger dog beside a young woman.
“Yours?” Greg asked.
She blinked. “Why?”
“He stayed with me while you were gone. Bright little chap. Lucky you.”
She smiled. “Oh, he’s not mine. Just latched onto me at the station. I was away—my mum was in hospital.”
“Really? What’s his name?”
“Hamlet.”
The crowd stirred as the train approached.
“Bye, Hamlet,” Greg said. He and the woman boarded the same carriage.
“I’m Greg. You?”
“Emily.”
“Funny—both starting with ‘E.’ Fate, eh?” Greg joked, though she didn’t laugh. “What do you do?”
“Nurse.”
They talked all the way to London. Greg liked her more by the minute. Easy to talk to. No wonder Hamlet chose her. Emily explained his elderly owner, a university professor, had died suddenly in the city.
“Hamlet kept waiting for him. Then he found me. Probably smelled the hospital—his owner had heart trouble,” she said.
“Why’d he pick me? I don’t exactly smell like antiseptic.”
“Maybe he sensed you were lonely too,” Emily smiled.
They agreed to meet that evening, travel home together. Greg worked in a daze, counting minutes till he saw her. At the station, he spotted Emily and waved. The journey flew by, conversation effortless.
Hamlet bounded to meet them, tail whipping. Emily knelt.
“Who were you waiting for?” she asked, stroking his head.
He licked her hand, then nudged Greg.
“You met her first. Off you go,” Greg said. “I’ll miss you.”
“Come on, Hamlet,” Emily called. But the dog didn’t move, gazing between them.
“Pick one,” Greg said, half-hoping for male solidarity.
Hamlet whined, pawing the ground.
“Maybe he wants us to go together. Your place or mine?” Greg asked, not wanting to part.
Emily shook her head. “No, Hamlet—go with him.”
“Kidding. Let me walk you home. Think thatAs Greg walked Emily and Hamlet home under the glow of streetlights, the dog trotted happily between them, as if he’d known all along that neither of them was meant to walk alone.
