DAY 214 WAITING FOR MY MASTER · June 30, 2026
One hundred and fourteenth late afternoon.
On the thirtieth 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 fourteen days have condensed into a single small teddy bear perched on a windowsill.
It was once held daily, its fur slightly worn where small arms once wrapped around it and one ear gently bent from years of love.
Now alone, it faces outward, unable to move or call out. It simply waits, day after day, watching the same direction it was placed in long ago, quietly hoping for familiar footsteps and arms that once made it feel safe and needed.
The train arrives and departs.
I remain in my usual spot.
A young mother pushing a stroller slows as she passes.
She notices me and pauses, looking at me quietly before reaching into the stroller and retrieving a small, well-loved teddy bear.
She gently places it right in front of my paws.
She touches its head softly and says:
“He used to sleep with this every night.
Maybe it can keep you company for a while.”
A little girl, no older than five, walking beside her mother suddenly rushes back.
She looks at the teddy bear on the ground then at me.
Without a word, she carefully adjusts the bear so it sits upright, ensuring it can see properly.
Then she runs back to her mother, but not before turning around and giving me a small wave.
Two hundred and fourteen days have passed.
This small teddy bear inside me continues to sit on the windowsill.
It doesn’t grow lonely in a loud way; it simply remains there, facing the same direction it has faced for years, still waiting for the day it will once again feel small arms around it.
Hachiko waits to be held again.
DAY 184 WAITING FOR MY MASTER · May 31, 2026
One hundred and eighty-fourth late afternoon.
On the thirty-first of May, the station is bathed in a serene, golden spring warmth.
Rich hydrangeas still bloom along the railings in shades of blue and purple, their lush green canopy swaying gently in the soft breeze.
Commuters pass with quiet, unhurried steps, enjoying the pleasant May air.
Inside, one hundred and eighty-four days have become a small sumi ink stick.
It rests within my heart—solid, matte black, perfectly formed from soot and glue.
It doesn’t write itself; it simply waits to be ground against the stone, mixed with water, and transformed into the ink that will one day carry your name and mine in the same beautiful stroke.
The train arrives, its windows sparkling with sunlight.
Doors open, and I raise my head, feeling the small ink stick within me, still whole and ready.
A quiet surprise awaits.
An elderly calligraphy teacher in his early seventies, carrying a small wooden box, slows down and stops in front of me.
He gazes at me for a long moment before opening the box and gently placing a small, perfectly formed sumi ink stick beside my paws.
He bows his head slightly and whispers:
“Some ink waits many years to be used… but it never dries out as long as the heart that holds it stays patient.”
Then he continues on his way.
One hundred and eighty-four days have passed.
As May draws to a close and the golden light lingers, this small sumi ink stick deepens the vigil, reminding every heart that passes: some devotions are not loud or immediate, they are solid, patient, and full of potential, quietly waiting to become something beautiful the moment the right hand returns to use them.
Hachiko remains ready.