It’s not every day you’re half-asleep on the Lloyd Center line and look up to see a full-grown llama just casually standing there, blocking half the aisle like it belonged.
People were whispering, phones out, trying to be discreet and totally failing. One lady near me actually snorted from laughing too hard. I mean, what do you even do? Pretend it’s normal? Offer it a seat?
The guy holding the lead rope was this older man with a beard like a snowstorm—serious, quiet, like this was just another Wednesday for him. No explanation, no apology. Just him. And the llama. On public transport.
I tried not to stare. I tried.
But the llama stared at me first.
Dead on. Big brown eyes, ears twitching slightly, this almost… knowing look. I shifted in my seat, glanced at my phone, pretending not to notice—but every time I peeked up, it was still locked on me.
When we pulled up to my stop, I practically bolted out the door, heart racing from some kind of secondhand embarrassment I couldn’t even explain. I got maybe halfway down the platform before I heard it:
That soft, weirdly heavy clop clop sound behind me.
I turned around.
And there he was.
No old man. No leash.
Just the llama.
Standing there.
Waiting.
And when I took a cautious step back, he followed.
Okay, let me pause here because if someone told me this story, I’d probably think they were messing with me. But trust me, this really happened—and that’s where things started getting… strange.
“Uh…” I said aloud, glancing around the mostly empty station. It was early enough that most commuters had already zipped off to their destinations. The few stragglers who lingered didn’t seem to notice or care about the llama trailing after me like some sort of fluffy shadow.
“What do you want?” I asked, crouching down awkwardly as though I expected an answer. He blinked slowly, his long lashes fluttering like he was considering how best to respond. Then, without warning, he nudged my arm with his nose. Not aggressively—just firm enough to make sure I understood: Hey, pay attention.
“Alright, alright,” I muttered, standing again. “You win. Let’s go.”
We walked together through the city streets, which felt surreal enough already without adding an uninvited llama companion into the mix. People passing by did double takes, pointing and snapping photos under the guise of checking their phones. A couple kids giggled openly, shouting, “Mommy, look! A llama!” Meanwhile, I kept waiting for someone official-looking—a cop, maybe, or animal control—to swoop in and demand answers. Answers I definitely didn’t have.
After about ten minutes of aimless wandering (because apparently llamas are great at following but terrible at giving directions), we ended up outside a little café called Bean & Bloom. It wasn’t anything fancy—just your standard coffee shop with mismatched chairs and walls painted sunshine yellow—but something about the place felt familiar. Like déjà vu pulling at the edges of my memory.
The llama stopped abruptly beside me, staring intently at the entrance. When I hesitated, unsure what to do next, he gave a soft grunt that sounded suspiciously like impatience. Fine then. If he wanted inside so badly, who was I to argue?
Inside smelled like roasted coffee beans and warm pastries—a comforting combination that momentarily distracted me from the absurdity of walking into a café with a llama. The barista behind the counter raised her eyebrows but didn’t say anything, instead busying herself with steaming milk for another customer. Smart move.
As we stood there, scanning the room, I noticed a small bulletin board tucked near the register. Tacked onto it was a flyer advertising local volunteer opportunities. One caught my eye immediately: Help Needed: Animal Sanctuary Volunteers. Beneath the bold headline was a photo of—you guessed it—a llama.
My stomach flipped. Could this be connected somehow? Was fate using a literal llama as its messenger? Or was I losing my mind?
Before I could overthink it further, the llama nudged me again, this time toward a table in the corner. Sitting there alone was a woman sketching furiously in a notebook. Her dark hair fell across her face as she worked, oblivious to everything else around her—including us.
Something about her seemed… important. Not magical or anything dramatic, just… significant. Like meeting her might change something.
“Excuse me,” I said cautiously, approaching the table. She looked up, startled, then smiled warmly. “Hi! Can I help you?”
“I… uh…” Words failed me for a moment. Instead, I gestured vaguely toward the llama now standing politely by my side. “This is going to sound crazy, but—”
To my surprise, she laughed. “Oh, don’t worry. Crazier things happen all the time.” Her gaze flickered to the llama, softening noticeably. “Especially when it comes to animals finding their way home.”
Her words sent a shiver down my spine. Home? What did she mean?
Turns out, her name was Marisol, and she ran the very sanctuary mentioned on the flyer. According to her, the llama—whom she identified as Paco—had gone missing two days ago during a routine feeding session. Somehow, impossibly, he’d made his way downtown, hopped on a train, and chosen me to escort him back.
“But why me?” I blurted, still reeling from the coincidence. “I’ve never even met him before today!”
Marisol shrugged, her expression thoughtful. “Animals know things we don’t always understand. Maybe Paco sensed you needed a little nudge in the right direction.”
A nudge? Toward what, exactly? As much as I wanted to dismiss her comment as poetic nonsense, part of me wondered if she was onto something. Lately, life had been feeling… stagnant. Predictable. Safe, sure, but also suffocating in its monotony. Maybe Paco wasn’t just looking for a ride back to the sanctuary; maybe he was reminding me that sometimes, taking unexpected paths leads to beautiful places.
Fast forward a week later, and guess who signed up to volunteer at Marisol’s sanctuary? Yep, yours truly. Turns out, spending time surrounded by creatures big and small—not to mention learning about their quirks and personalities—was exactly the shake-up I needed. Paco, naturally, became my favorite resident, though I swore he smirked whenever our paths crossed.
Here’s the twist, though: During one of my shifts, Marisol approached me with news that changed everything. Apparently, the sanctuary was struggling financially, teetering on the brink of closure. They needed fresh ideas, passionate advocates willing to fight for its survival.
Challenge accepted.
With renewed determination, I rallied friends, family, and even strangers online to support the cause. Fundraisers popped up, social media campaigns gained traction, and suddenly, people cared—not just about saving Paco’s home, but about making space for all kinds of misunderstood animals.
In the end, the sanctuary survived thanks to a community coming together. And while I can’t claim sole credit, I know deep down that Paco played a role in steering me toward this purpose.
So here’s the lesson I learned from a stubborn llama and a random Tuesday morning: Sometimes, life throws curveballs disguised as chaos. But within those moments lies opportunity—if only we’re brave enough to embrace them.
If you enjoyed this story, hit that like button and share it with someone who needs a reminder that magic exists in unexpected places. Who knows? Your own llama might be waiting just around the corner.”
