"Where the Train Passes"

Chapter One - Csöppi, My First Friend

The village where I grew up was like the last page of a fairytale book—slightly worn, a little dusty, but still full of life. It didn’t have much paint left on it, but I knew every corner by heart. The streets were crooked, the ditches deep, and when it rained hard, you could sail walnut shells in them.

Our house stood on a hillside, with green shutters, a creaky gate, and a big yard where all the important things happened. Behind the house, a small garden stretched out, full of raspberry bushes and nettles that always made my ankles itch. If you slammed the gate too hard, they could hear it on the other end of the village—when I was little, I imagined that’s how we announced to the world we were home.

My family didn’t speak much, but everyone did their part. Silence didn’t mean tension in our house; it meant routine, a kind of quiet order. My father, István, was a railwayman—up at dawn, hands stained with oil, walking with precise, firm steps. I always knew when he got up; the creak of the coffee maker and the soft swish of shoelaces came before the sunrise. If I was late for breakfast, I only heard the distant rumble of the train disappearing behind the tracks.

My mother, Ilona, cooked at the village school, but at home, she conjured meals so rich in smell that the neighbors could tell what day it was just from the scent. Her mashed potatoes had their own signature aroma, and her goulash had a taste I still search for in every pot I try. She was the quiet center of our family, smoothing a tablecloth the same way she calmed a crying child.

My older sister, Zsuzsi, was nearly grown-up. She often acted like a second mother—especially to me. She bossed me around, corrected me, sometimes even slapped me, but if I cried, she was the first to run to me. She lived among us with the mystery of a teenage girl—disappearing into her room for hours, hiding secret boxes in her closet that I wasn’t allowed to touch.

I was the youngest. The one who listened the most and observed everything. I memorized smells, sounds, and tiny gestures. I watched how my father tied his shoes, how my mother sliced bread, how Zsuzsi brushed her hair when she was angry. To me, the world was full of secrets, waiting to be understood by someone who paid close enough attention.

And then there was Csöppi.

A white puli mix, a bit scruffy, a bit old, but always with me. His fur looked like the fluffy dandelions behind our house—just a little dirtier. I didn’t know exactly how old he was, only that he’d always been there. As if he was born with the house itself. Some people called him “the boy’s shadow.”

Csöppi didn’t bark at the world unless he had to. He watched, instead. If I sat in the garden, he lay beside me. If I cried, he rested his head on my knee. If I was being chased in the yard, he always stood between me and the danger—be it an overenthusiastic goose or a stern uncle.

My father once said:
“That dog knows you better than you know yourself.”

Maybe he was right. Sometimes I felt like Csöppi didn’t just understand me—he anticipated me. If I secretly tried to sneak out to steal a slice of bread, he was already sitting at the doorstep. If I hid behind the walnut tree, he always knew where I was. He didn’t seek eye contact, didn’t jump, didn’t bark—he just was. That was his language of love.

I started and ended every day with him. He never asked for love. Never demanded anything. He was just there—and that was enough for him. Often, I felt he was the only one in the world who expected nothing of me—except to simply be. Quietly. Beside him.

Back then, I didn’t know that not every dog was like him.

Back then, I didn’t know that two other stormy little furballs would arrive, stirring up this peaceful order.

But until then, everything belonged to him: the yard, the doorstep, and my heart.