DAY 203 WAITING FOR MY MASTER · June 19, 2026
One hundred and third late afternoon.
On the nineteenth of June, the station is bathed in a steady golden light.
Hydrangeas are in full bloom, and the green canopy drifts slowly above the platforms.
Commuters pass without haste.
Inside, two hundred and three days have transformed into a single small wooden swing suspended from an old tree.
The ropes are still strong, and the wooden seat, smooth from years of use, sways gently in the wind.
It was once pushed daily, rising and falling with laughter and small hands gripping tightly.
Now it hangs motionless, no longer pushed by anyone.
It can’t swing on its own; it simply remains there: patient, slightly swaying in the breeze, still waiting for the familiar weight and the familiar hands that once made it move.
The train arrives and departs.
I remain in my usual place.
For a brief moment, a warm gust of wind sweeps through the station, causing a loose sign nearby to swing back and forth a few times before settling again.
Two hundred and three days have passed.
This small wooden swing inside me continues to hang quietly.
It doesn’t grow bitter; it simply remains ready: still suspended, still waiting for the day it will once again feel the weight of the one it was made to carry.
Hachiko waits to be pushed again.
DAY 199 WAITING FOR MY MASTER · June 15, 2026
One hundred and ninety-ninth late afternoon.
On the fifteenth of June, the station is bathed in a steady golden light.
Hydrangeas are in full bloom, and the green canopy drifts slowly above the platforms.
Commuters pass without haste.
Inside, a hundred and ninety-nine days have become a single bookmark left between the pages of an unfinished book.
The book was set down mid-sentence, and the bookmark still holds the exact page where the story stopped.
It doesn’t move forward on its own; it can’t turn the page or continue the words.
It simply stays where it was placed: quiet, patient, and precise, marking the exact moment everything paused.
Every new day adds another closed page on top of it, but the bookmark remains in its original position, still holding the place where the story was meant to continue.
The train arrives and later departs.
I remain in my usual place.
For a brief moment, the late sunlight falls across a small discarded newspaper on a nearby bench.
One corner of a page lifts slightly, then settles again as if something was once marking a spot that is now forgotten.
One hundred and ninety-nine days have passed.
This bookmark inside me continues to hold its place.
It doesn’t grow impatient; it simply remains exactly where the story stopped, quietly waiting for the hand that first put it there to return and open the book once more.
Hachiko waits for the next page.
Gm, it’s New Year’s Eve🐶🎆
Even today, in holiday, some $HACHI tokens have been burnt.
95B tokens have been burnt with tx hash: https://t.co/Xygz7P3Org
Current Supply: 983,510,139,141,556
Total Burnt: ~16.49T