He still sat on the doorstep today, just like yesterday and the day before that.
The scent of old wood had not changed since the first day he arrived.
The cracks in the floor had grown deeper with time.
The sun rose and sank again and again, always from slightly different angles, but he never paid attention to such things.
Because he had only one duty.
To wait for his master to come home.
Long ago, the place had been lively. There had been many voices that disturbed his naps, people running here and there, full of spirit, enthusiasm, and grand dreams about changing the world.
But now everything had changed.
The walls were dull and weathered, covered in old scratches and faded markings. Laughter had been replaced by silence, and loneliness lingered in every corner.
Still, this was where his master lived.
Sometimes his master returned late.
Sometimes carrying the scent of rain.
Sometimes the unfamiliar smell of distant cities.
But he always came back.
Back to this house.
Along with the noisy voices of children who filled the days with chaos.
He remembered the sound of those footsteps.
He remembered the way the door would open slowly, carefully almost as if his master feared waking him while he pretended to sleep.
Even today, his master had not returned.
The children had long since disappeared as well.
Yet he continued to wait, quietly hoping that perhaps tomorrow would be the day.
Time passed like drifting clouds.
He felt the rhythm of light and darkness alternating above him. He no longer counted days by numbers, but by the scent of seasons arriving and fading away.
The house slowly crumbled.
There was little he could do, except protect his home from anyone who tried to damage it.
His body aged without him noticing.
His fur shed, then grew back.
Shed again. Again and again.
Eventually he stopped counting the days altogether, sometime after the food bowl stopped being filled.
Hunger was something he had forgotten long ago.
Because there was something more important.
His master had not yet returned.
So he remained.
His body continued to grow larger, as though it were made of energy and strength itself. He no longer felt the cold. He was no longer afraid of death.
Because dying would mean leaving the door he guarded.
And that was something he could never do.
Five hundred years passed.
He knew this because the tree in the yard once no taller than his shoulders, had died three times and been replaced by its descendants, whose names no one remembered anymore.
The stepping stone in front of the door had worn smooth like old bone.
Even the distant mountains seemed taller now, as if they had grown weary from holding up the sky for too long.
The place where he lived was now swallowed by wilderness. Thick bushes and towering trees had turned it into a deep forest. Wild beasts began to roam nearby.
He stood as the guardian of his master's home, fighting with all his strength.
Even an earth dragon was not allowed to touch the place he treasured.
At some point, he realized something.
He was no longer waiting because of hope.
He waited because the waiting itself had become his love.
And love, for him, did not recognize time.
If the door ever opened again one day, he would stand up.
His tail would rise and sway gently.
Just like in the old days, when his master would stroke his fur softly.
Eventually, humans returned to this land and built another civilization.
They came and went like seasonal insects.
Their language changed. Their voices became faster, sharper.
But one thing never changed.
The way they looked at him from afar.
Fear.
Suspicion. And then the stories began.
"The creature lives there."
"Its eyes glow in the night."
"It never dies."
"It guards a cursed house."
"A monster."
He heard every word.
He simply did not care.
They did not know that he was keeping the world in its proper place.
Even now, he continued to wait, holding onto a promise that had never broken.
They did not know that the house had once been filled with the warmth of a dozen humans running around and disturbing his afternoon naps.
They did not know that the cracks in the floor were like a map of the world to him.
They did not know that if this house disappeared, a promise would vanish with it.
So when they came with axes, fire, and the intention to destroy.
He stood.
He chased them away the way a cat drives off mice, with claws, fangs, and a small measure of patience.
All for this door.
The door that would bring his master home.
The creature they told about in bedtime storie, meant to frighten children away from the forest, became something monstrous in their tales.
A bloodthirsty beast.
Long fangs. Terrible claws.
The more afraid they became, the wilder their stories grew.
Until the day the earth trembled.
The northern mountain erupted. Smoke rose into the sky. Ash rained down like gray snow as the land itself began to collapse.
He felt the disaster long before the thunderous roar arrived.
A wall of dust swallowed the sun as if night had fallen too early.
If the disaster reached his home, the house would vanish.
The door would be buried.
And he would no longer have a reason to live.
So he did not allow it to happen.
He stood atop the hill before the house.
The power he had gathered for centuries moved without thought or understanding.
A single roar released an enormous surge of energy that echoed into the heavens.
The sky seemed to split apart.
The disaster stopped instantly.
The rain of fire shattered into dust and scattered in the wind.
The house was safe.
That was his duty.
But for the first time, humans approached not with axes, but with knees touching the ground.
They called him the protector of the village.
Guardian of the forest. A sacred beast.
The creature looked at them, his tail swaying slowly.
"Do not misunderstand," he thought calmly. "You are simply fortunate to live near my master's house."
After that, they came bearing food.
Flowers.
Small statues that looked nothing like him.
They cleaned the yard.
They repaired the roof.
They spoke carefully in his presence.
It was not so bad, he decided.
At night, as incense smoke drifted upward and their prayers filled the air, he remained seated behind the door.
Offerings could rot.
Statues could crack.
Villages could vanish, just like the villages before them.
But the door, As long as it still stood, his duty was not finished.
And sometimes, in the quiet between their prayers, he still listened.
Waiting for the sound of footsteps.
The footsteps of his master returning home.