There’s an old lady I see most mornings on my way to work. She walks her dog at exactly 8 a.m., steering her mobility scooter with one hand and holding the leash in the other. Her little companion, a Cavapoo puppy, trots happily beside her, its curly brown coat bouncing with each eager step. It’s always full of energy, tail wagging, ears flopping, completely unaware of the world beyond its morning adventure.
She always dresses for the weather—on cold days, she wears a warm hat, and when the sun is bright, she has on a pair of sunglasses.
I don’t know her name. We’ve never spoken. But she’s become a familiar presence in my mornings, a quiet constant in the rhythm of my daily commute. And though we’ve never exchanged a word, I always smile when I see her.
Then, one day, she wasn’t there.
At first, I didn’t think much of it. The weather had been unusually cold, and I told myself she was probably staying warm indoors. But as the days passed, her absence began to feel heavier. A week went by, then two. I had been on leave for a bit, so I thought maybe I had just missed her. But when I returned to my usual routine, she was still nowhere to be seen.
A quiet worry settled in me.
I tried reasoning with myself—maybe she had changed her schedule, maybe she wasn’t feeling well, maybe she was simply taking a break. But my mind wouldn’t stop drifting to the worst possibilities. I didn’t even know how to find out if something had happened. I did a few internet searches, hoping for some clue, but nothing came up. It’s strange how someone you’ve never spoken to can leave such a noticeable gap when they’re gone.
And then, a month later, something wonderful happened.
I was driving to work, humming along to a song on the radio, when I saw her. There she was, just like before—rolling down the sidewalk with her puppy trotting happily beside her, bundled up against the morning chill.
A rush of relief and joy flooded me. I almost risked stopping right there on the quiet road, but there was nowhere to pull over. I wanted to call out, to tell her how happy I was to see her again. Instead, I honked—a quick, impulsive beep of excitement.
She turned, startled, looking around to see who had broken the stillness of the morning. I don’t think she recognized me. But that didn’t matter. She was there, and she was okay.
The rest of the day felt lighter, brighter.
It’s funny how people—strangers, even—can weave themselves into the fabric of our lives in the simplest ways. How their presence, their routine, their quiet existence can bring us comfort. I may never know her story, but I know this: that morning, just seeing her again made my whole day.