The Woman at Union Station.

I was supposed to be leaving quietly.

One last ride to Union Station,

one more suitcase,

one more slow goodbye to a city I loved deeply,

but wasn’t quite ready to leave.

I had already put the furniture back.

Swept the floors.

Taken one last look at the apartment I’d turned into my sanctuary.

I thought I’d wrapped everything up nicely.

But the day had other plans.

...

My dad had helped me move the bulk of my things weeks earlier in a U-Haul.

But somehow, what was left felt heavier than it should have.

More than I could carry alone.

But if I could just get it all on the bus,

it would be alright.

That was the plan.

...

What followed was an unremarkable kind of chaos.

The property manager had stepped out for lunch just as I arrived to return the keys.

After a ridiculous little dance—one set in the mailbox, the other left upstairs—

I realized, too late, that I’d locked myself out of the building entirely.

My Uber driver messaged me three times.

Rightfully frustrated.

By the time I finally made it to Union Station,

I was sweating,

arms full,

barely holding it together.

...

Those who know me will tell you:

I’m directionally challenged with something bordering on conviction.

I’ve made a part-time job out of confidently heading the wrong way.

...

So there I was.

Too little time.

And no clue where to go.

I trudged through the station, asking for help,

getting pointed in five different directions,

watching the minutes vanish from my phone screen.

My mom had warned me to leave hours before.

She was right.

Annoyingly, effortlessly, and to an almost unfair degree, maternally right.

...

Time was not on my side.

...

Eventually, with maybe fifteen minutes left and my arms aching,

I dropped everything just to breathe.

I’d hit that point where your body gives out before your will does.

I tried asking a teenage girl nearby for help,

but before she could answer,

an older woman I’d passed earlier appeared.

...

She had turned around.

She asked me where I was going and offered to help.

She had a bad wrist, she said,

so she couldn’t carry anything heavy,

but she could take something small.

What she ended up carrying was so much more than that.

...

She knew the way through the maze of Union Station.

I followed her, still panicking, still convinced I’d already missed the bus.

In my head, I was already making backup plans:

Could I sleep at Union?

Could I call my landlord and ask to stay just one more night?

Walk back with all my things?

But she kept moving,

steady and sure,

reassuring me that buses often ran late.

That there were usually others.

That it wasn’t over yet.

...

At one point, as we rode up a set of escalators,

me juggling bags and trying not to fall apart,

she glanced over and said something gently, almost like she was thinking out loud.

“I saw you earlier,”

“You looked overwhelmed.”

She asked me what I did.

I told her I was a student, moving to Ottawa.

Then she asked,

“Why isn’t anyone helping you?”

And I didn’t really have an answer.

...

I’ve never been great at asking for help.

To be honest, it hadn’t even crossed my mind that I could.

I’d just assumed I had to carry it all.

She reminded me again, apologetically, that she had a bad wrist,

but added with quiet certainty,

that she’d help me get all the way there.

And she did.

...

We finally reached the white terminal doors,

basically the gates of heaven,

and were met by a screen that seemed to confirm the worst:

the bus had already left.

I was so close to breaking.

But she stayed calm.

She spoke to an attendant, who pointed to a nearby queue of people boarding.

The bus was still there.

We made it.

...

She told me to run and get in line,

and that she’d wait with my bags by the door.

I thanked her, too many times,

and gave her a hug before stepping onto the bus.

I don’t offer that kind of closeness easily. But with her, it came without thinking.

A few minutes later, the driver came down the aisle and handed me a ten-dollar bill and a five.

“She said to give this to you,” he told me.

I held those bills like proof that I hadn’t been alone.

...

I kept the five for a long time.

It wasn’t about the bill—

it was the memory it held.

...

I still look for her when I pass through Union Station.

Just in case.

I want to give the money back.

Or say something more.

Or just thank her properly.

...

Because she’s the type of person I want to be.

Calm in a storm.

Generous without fanfare.

Kind in a way that changes someone’s entire day

without expecting anything in return.

...

And recently, I ended up using that five-dollar bill.

It was one of those days,

the kind where you need change and have nothing left to give

but something you never meant to spend.

I reached for the bill instinctively,

then paused.

My grip was too tight, and I knew it.

But something about letting go felt right.

Like maybe I’d held onto its magic long enough.

...

So I let it go.

And in doing so,

I passed something on.

Something small.

Quiet.

Warm.

For what it’s worth,

Charlene Iris

If you ever happen to be reading this, and even remember me, please know that I’ll never forget you.

Thank you.

Words fall short, but your kindness never will.

One thought at a time. One truth at a time. Because some epiphanies stay with you.