Story

The piece of vegetable-tanned leather in his palm still carried the warmth of the sun. As the old craftsman stroked the surface, he suddenly remembered how it always loved to nap on the slippers in the entrance hall, its front paws resting precariously on the edge of the shoe. At this moment, that naive gesture was gradually emerging from the tip of the knife.

Seventeen photos were repeatedly compared before the outline was finalized. Even the patch on the collar you hand-sewn has crooked stitches. Under the magnifying glass, the curvature of each whisker has been revised three times. The texture of the paw pad is clearer than in my memory. It's almost as if I can still smell the earthy scent it brought back from the grass after the rain.

Over time, the leather will slowly acquire an amber luster, like the warmth of its belly as it rests on your lap. Hang it on a hook in the hallway, and the soft clink of keys will make you wonder if it's its tail brushing against your trouser legs again. Spread it out in the corner of your desk, in the afternoon sun, the carved shadow will gently sway across the manuscript paper, just like its playful claws constantly fiddling with the tip of your pen.

The most touching thing is the small chip that was deliberately left at the corner - just like a piece of paint that was accidentally scraped off when it jumped onto the sofa. Later you always said it was the most beautiful flaw in the house, and now it has become a breathing ring on the leather.

This isn't a sculpture. It's the touch of a dog burying its wet nose in your palm on a rainy evening; it's the warm light wagging its tail in the hallway when you come home from work late at night; it's turning fleeting companionship into a tangible eternity.

After all, some goodbyes are too hasty, so there has to be something to replace it, continuing to squat by the door waiting for you to come home.