E-Book Bonus: Newly Written Short Story ‘The Two Who Pass By’
“For now, let’s call this dog Hachi. It’s raised in Shibuya, after all,” my master would say, voice warm with affection. Hachi, loyal companion, relished yakitori and long walks, patrolling Shibuya’s streets alongside its master nearly every morning and evening. Avoiding the crowded chaos near the station, they stuck to quiet residential alleys, far from the clamor.
This morning, too, Hachi trotted up a gentle slope toward the park, the crisp air sharp in its lungs. Sparrows chirped overhead, leaves rustled in the breeze, and through the wire fence, the park’s greenery shimmered under the May sunrise, radiant and alive. People gathering there often called this the most beautiful season of the year.
Hachi, being a dog, didn’t think like humans. Books say a dog’s intelligence mirrors that of a two- or three-year-old child—capable of simple words, feeling pleasure or discomfort, but not weaving complex thoughts. Still, Hachi knew. Every morning on this slope, it passed a boy.
Three years ago, that boy sped by on his bicycle, bell chiming—chiring!—as he raced down toward the station. Evenings, he’d pedal back up, his routine aligning with Hachi’s walks. Over time, Hachi memorized his scent, distinct and familiar.
Two summers ago, something shifted. The boy, once always on his bike, began walking alongside a girl Hachi didn’t recognize. At first, it went unnoticed. They didn’t always walk together, their schedules misaligned. The girl moved with purpose, earphones dangling, her posture straight but her focus subtly drawn to the faint voices leaking from them. A dog’s hearing, far keener than a human’s—able to catch sounds a kilometer away—picked up the foreign language she listened to, not Japanese.
One day, Hachi saw the boy, usually on his bike, trailing behind her. At an intersection, they stood apart, waiting. The signal changed. A car roared around the curve, reckless, ignoring its surroundings. “Watch out!” a voice shouted. The boy yanked the girl back just as she stepped into the crosswalk, saving her from the speeding car. Hachi’s ears caught her ragged breaths as she sank to the ground, shaken but unharmed.
“That was close, huh? Hachi, you gotta be careful crossing the street too,” its master said, concern lacing their words. Hachi didn’t grasp every syllable but understood the care behind them. With a sharp wan!, it barked its acknowledgment.
After that, the boy and girl sometimes walked side by side. Passing the park, Hachi’s master, ever polite, would nod and say, “Hey.” The pair would smile, returning the greeting. Occasionally, with the master’s permission, the girl would kneel to stroke Hachi’s fluffy fur, her touch so gentle that Hachi grew fond of her.
“What a smart dog. So well-trained,” the boy remarked.
“Really. This one’s got such clever eyes,” the girl added.
“It always barks at us when we pass by.”
“Huh? It remembers us?”
“Seems like it. Even when I pass by on my bike, it looks at me.”
“That’s amazing. You’re so smart, aren’t you?” Her voice brimmed with praise.
Hachi, understanding her tone but not the words, answered with a cheerful woof.
“Thank you very much,” its master said, speaking for Hachi.
About a year ago, perhaps, another change came. The boy and girl began walking hand in hand, pressed close. Hachi knew—this was how human pairs behaved. They were that kind of couple.
Seasons turned slowly. Spring faded, and summer’s heat arrived. Hachi, disliking the warmth, shifted to earlier morning walks, making it harder to cross paths with the pair. By autumn, when their schedules might align again, Hachi, in its simple dog-like way, wondered if some new change had touched the boy and girl.
