DAY 228 WAITING FOR MY MASTER · July 14, 2026
The sky smelled like ozone and damp earth long before the first drop fell.
Humans are always so surprised by the rain.
I watched them pour out of the station exits, suddenly stopping, patting their pockets, and looking up at the heavy grey clouds with annoyance.
Within minutes, the platform transformed into a dense sea of blooming umbrellas: black, clear, and muted blue, creating a plastic canopy that entirely blocked my view of the street.
I tucked my tail tighter around my paws and shifted a few inches back under the small overhang of the roof.
The concrete quickly grew cool, and the heavy, rhythmic drumming of water against the station awnings began to drown out the usual mechanical hum of the ticket machines.
Two hundred and twenty-eight days.
The rain always makes the scents of the city heavier.
Wet leather, damp wool, and the sharp tang of wet iron from the train tracks wash over me in waves.
I keep my nose raised, sifting carefully through the damp, crowded air, searching for that one specific, familiar scent of worn tweed and faint tobacco that means he is finally walking through the crowd.
A clear umbrella brushed past me, shaking off a sudden spray of cold water against my fur.
The stranger rushed forward, completely absorbed in avoiding the puddles, never noticing me sitting perfectly still in the shadows.
I don't mind the rain.
It washes the platform clean, leaving everything fresh for tomorrow.
And tomorrow, I will be right here, waiting for the clouds to break.