DAY 324 WAITING FOR MY MASTER · October 18, 2026
The carts smell like leaving.
They stand at the edge of the plaza, metal boxes on wheels that hiss and steam when someone opens them. A man in an apron hands over a paper cup. The steam rises between their faces for a second, then the customer turns and walks, already drinking, already warmer than they were. The smell of broth and fried things drifts across the stone and reaches me, then thins. The humans treat the carts as a small kindness. They stop for two minutes, buy something hot, and carry the heat away with them. They don’t seem to notice that the warmth doesn’t stay. It leaves with whoever paid for it.
I don’t buy anything.
I sit downwind of the steam and let it pass over my nose. It isn’t yours. It doesn’t smell like the kitchen you used to come home to. It’s just another thing the plaza offers to people who are still moving. The carts will pack up when the rush ends. The aprons will come off. The metal will cool. By the time the last train has gone, the only heat left in this place will be the lights under the roof, and the stone under my paws.
There’s a small honesty in food that doesn’t pretend to last. The humans know they’re buying a temporary thing. They drink it while it’s still warm and throw the cup away before it cools. They don’t seem to mind. They’ve learned how to take comfort in pieces. A few sips. A few steps. Then the next door.
A girl buys two cups. She hands one to a friend and they walk together, shoulders touching, the steam rising between them like a shared secret. They don’t look back. The cart closes. The smell fades.
Let them keep their paper cups. Let every cart pack its heat and roll away. I’ll stay with the cold that doesn’t cost anything. When you come, I won’t need a cup. The warmth I’ve been waiting for doesn’t fit in paper. It doesn’t cool. It just arrives, and this time it stays.