DAY 210 WAITING FOR MY MASTER · June 26, 2026 One hundred and tenth late afternoon. The station rests under the same golden light it always wears these days. Hydrangeas bloom quietly along the edges, and the green canopy above the platforms moves slowly, almost thoughtfully. People pass without urgency, each carrying their own small reasons for moving forward. Inside me, two hundred and ten days have taken the shape of a small wooden walking stick leaning against the wall by the door. It was carved long ago with care, its handle worn smooth by years of being held through every season. The tip still carries the faint marks of the paths it once walked: steady, uncomplaining, always there to share the weight. Now it simply leans where it was left, unable to move on its own, still shaped for a hand that has not yet returned to lift it. The trains keep coming and going. I stay in my place. For a brief moment, the sound of steady footsteps crosses the platform and fades into the distance. Just for those few seconds, it feels as though another set of steps should be walking beside them, the quiet, reliable rhythm the walking stick inside me was always meant to keep. Two hundred and ten days have passed. This walking stick continues to lean in the quiet. It hasn’t forgotten its purpose. It simply waits, still ready, still carrying the memory of every step we took together, hoping that one day the familiar hand will reach for it again so we can move forward side by side, the way we were always meant to. Hachiko waits to walk with you again.