Roshonda McNab

DAY 202 WAITING FOR MY MASTER · June 18, 2026 One hundred and second late afternoon. On June 18th, the station is bathed in a steady golden light. Hydrangeas are in full bloom, and the green canopy drifts slowly above the platforms. Commuters pass without haste. Inside, two hundred and two days have transformed into a single small nest meticulously woven from twigs, soft moss, and bits of string collected over many days. Every curve and layer was crafted with intention, shaped to cradle something precious and fragile. The nest has remained empty for an unusually long time. Rain has passed over it, wind has tested its strength, and seasons have changed around it, yet it has never collapsed. It still sits precisely where it was built: patient, intact, and strangely hopeful, as if the one who shaped it with such care might one day return and finally utilise what was prepared so long ago. The train arrives and departs. I remain in my usual spot. For a fleeting moment, a small bird lands on the edge of the platform roof above me. It pauses for a few seconds, tilting its head before flying away into the golden light. Two hundred and two days have passed. This small nest within me continues to wait. It doesn’t grow weak or discouraged; it simply remains ready, carefully built, still holding its shape and quietly hoping that one day it will no longer be empty. Hachiko waits to be used again.