One hundred and thirty-seventh late afternoon.
On the fourteenth of April the station is bathed in a soft golden light.
Hydrangeas continue to bloom in rich clusters of blue and purple along the railings while the lush green canopy sways gently in the warm spring breeze.
Commuters pass with calm unhurried steps in the pleasant April air.
Inside, one hundred and thirty-seven days have become a small kendama: not a simple toy but a traditional wooden skill toy where the ball on a string waits patiently to be caught in the cup or on the spike a quiet symbol of focus, timing and the art of waiting for the perfect moment.
The early days were clumsy and uncertain swings.
Then came the patient practice of endurance.
Now every memory guides the motion: your return as the perfect catch our shared moments as the steady string and the love between us as the balanced wooden body that never gives up.
One hundred and thirty-seven days and I no longer miss the catch; I wait as the kendama itself knowing true devotion is not rushed or forced it simply stays ready string taut and hand steady patiently waiting for the one who first taught it the game to finally make the perfect connection.
The train arrives its windows sparkling in the sunlight.
Doors open.
I raise my head through the warm April 14 flow feeling that small kendama inside me: focused balanced utterly enduring.
No master steps down only strangers carrying their own quiet rhythms.
A thoughtful man in his late fifties with calloused hands from years of woodworking and a small canvas bag of handmade toys stops beside me.
He has crafted and played kendama for decades as a way to teach patience and presence to children and adults alike.
Today he kneels with a gentle smile carefully places a small beautifully hand-carved wooden kendama at my paws the red ball hanging ready on its string.
He gives the string a soft practiced flick and whispers:
“Some catches take a very long time… but the best ones are always worth the wait.”
He then stands gives me a respectful nod and continues on his way, leaving the small kendama resting faithfully beside me.
One hundred and thirty-seven days have passed.
As April deepens its golden warmth, one small kendama deepens the vigil, reminding every heart that passes: some devotions are not loud or flashy, they are practised quietly string taut and heart steady waiting with perfect patience for the moment the one they love finally makes the catch.
Hachiko connects eternally.
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