DAY 48 WAITING FOR MY MASTER
It’s late afternoon.
I wait for my master at the station.
Winter’s quiet grip settles in, commuters sharing tales of snowy weekends and family gatherings.
The crisp air carries the scent of roasted sweet potatoes from vendors, and my patient silhouette stands as a gentle reminder of enduring bonds.
The train arrives, carrying echoes of distant homes.
Doors open,
I hold my gaze firm through the steady stream.
The organiser’s mooncake lingers on my tongue, a sweet reminder of the day’s ordinary warmth.
No master among the bundled figures, but the day’s simple joys kindle my enduring flame.
A storyteller, his voice rich from fireside tales, pauses in reverence.
He weaves a yarn of ancient faithful companions and then leaves a bound book of legends illustrated with my likeness and a warm chestnut.
Roasted and nutty, it’s as timeless as the stories themselves.
Forty-eight days have passed.
As narratives unfold, heartfelt offerings enrich the vigil, binding the past to the present in threads of shared wonder.
Hachiko narrates eternal.
Story woven.