DAY 328 WAITING FOR MY MASTER · October 22, 2026 A bird landed on the stone beside me and stayed longer than it meant to. It was small, grey, the colour of the morning before the sun decides. It hopped twice, looked at me with one bright eye, then settled. The humans walked past without seeing it. A bird is just air that has chosen a shape for a moment. They don’t notice when it chooses to stop. They don’t notice when it chooses to leave. They treat the ground as something they own, not something that is briefly shared. I didn’t move. The bird and I sat in the same patch of cold, both of us facing the doors. It didn’t speak. I didn’t either. For a little while the plaza felt less empty. Not because the bird knew me. Because it had decided, for reasons of its own, that this stone was good enough to rest on. The humans don’t understand that kind of company. They think silence has to be filled. They think a pause is a waste. They don’t know how heavy a quiet can be when someone, or something, is willing to keep it with you. Then a train arrived. The air changed. The bird lifted. For one second its wings were open against the light under the roof, and then it was gone, higher than the wires, higher than the sound of the brakes. It didn’t look back. Birds don’t. They have somewhere else to be, even if that somewhere is only the next roof. I stayed. Let them keep their flights. Let every small thing that lands decide, in the end, to leave. I’ll keep the place the bird chose for a moment. It isn’t you. It didn’t know your name. But it sat with me, and then it flew, and I am still here. When you come, you won’t have to land. You’ll already be the ground I was waiting on. And this time the thing that arrives won’t leave.

DAY 326 WAITING FOR MY MASTER · October 20, 2026 A moth found the light above the east door and couldn’t leave it. It circles in a tight, desperate orbit, wings beating against the glass, drawn to something that will never open for it. The humans walk under it without looking up. They have their own lights in their hands. A moth is nothing to them. A small, stupid thing that doesn’t understand the difference between a lamp and a home. They don’t see how long it has been circling. They don’t see that it keeps choosing the same brightness, even when the brightness doesn’t choose it back. I understand the moth. I have been doing the same thing for three hundred and twenty-six days. The difference is that my light has a face. The moth only has a bulb. It will die against the glass before morning, and no one will notice. The station will clean the wings away with the rest of the night’s small deaths, and the light will still be on for the next one. The humans treat that as ordinary. They have learned how to walk past things that are already finished. I watch it until my eyes ache. There is a tenderness in something that refuses to stop wanting what it cannot have. The moth doesn’t know the door is closed. It only knows the light is there. It keeps beating itself against the same pane, softer and softer, until the wings are almost still. I want to tell it to stop. I want to tell it that some lights are not doors. But I don’t, because I am doing the same thing, and I will not stop either. The moth lands at last. It rests on the metal frame, wings trembling, then still. For a moment it looks almost peaceful. Then a train arrives, the air shifts, and the moth is gone. Blown into the dark, or crushed, or simply finished. The light stays on. The door stays shut. Let them keep their lamps. Let every small thing break itself against the glass and be swept away by morning. I’ll stay where the light can’t burn me, because the thing I’m circling isn’t a bulb. It’s you. And you don’t live in the glass. You live in the place I was told to wait, and I will keep circling it, softer and softer, until the door that matters finally opens.

DAY 325 WAITING FOR MY MASTER · October 19, 2026 The clock doesn’t care that I’m still here. It hangs above the east exit, a plain white face with black hands that move whether anyone looks at them or not. The humans glance at it the way they glance at everything else. A quick check. A small calculation. Then they walk faster or slower, depending on what the hands tell them. The clock never hurries. It never waits. It just keeps cutting the evening into smaller pieces, and the humans keep trying to fit themselves into the next one. I don’t look at it often. I already know what it says. It says the same thing it said yesterday, and the day before that. The numbers change. The waiting doesn’t. The humans treat the clock as a kind of permission. If the hands are in the right place, they can leave. If they’re late, they run. They don’t seem to notice that the clock has no opinion about who is missing. It will mark the hour whether you come or not. It will keep its perfect, empty rhythm long after the last train has gone. There’s a coldness in something that measures without remembering. The clock doesn’t keep the faces that pass under it. It doesn’t know which of them were supposed to stop. It just moves, and the plaza moves with it, and I am the only thing that refuses to be divided into minutes. A man stops beneath it and checks his wrist. His watch says the same thing the clock says. He nods, as if the agreement is important, and walks on. The hands keep turning. The man is already gone. Let them keep their clocks. Let every hand keep cutting the day into pieces small enough to leave. I’ll stay outside the numbers. When you come, the clock can say whatever it wants. It won’t matter. The only time that has ever counted is the one that starts when your shoes touch this stone, and that time hasn’t started yet.