"Director Edward has sent in a new film again."
The familiar review office greeted Corey just as it always did, yet today he couldn't help feeling a bit surprised. Ever since Director Edward had gone quiet for such a long time, Corey had thought he would never again see one of Edward's films land on his desk.
But unexpectedly, here one was—an outcome that truly shocked him.
This time too, the leading cast seemed to be the same middle-aged coworkers and their usual ensemble. But when Corey glanced at the title and the program category it was submitted under, his tense shoulders eased a little. At least for this one, the program's rules clearly stated no horror, so he felt there was a good chance this film wasn't going to be one of Edward's infamous nightmare pieces. Even so, he was truly curious.
"This one is actually titled Hachiko, A Growlithe's Tale. Is it a story about a Growlithe?" the young woman beside him asked, sounding genuinely interested. Corey stroked his chin, muttering his guess but no matter what he thought, they still needed to watch the film itself to know for sure.
Together with his colleague, he walked into the screening room. A number of other staff members were also in attendance; Edward's absence from the film scene had left the market lacking that distinct psychological-horror style only he could produce.
Many people had begun doubting whether they had somehow developed PTSD, otherwise why would they miss those terrifying films so much? But as the theater lights dimmed, all murmurs faded, and the room's attention shifted entirely to the glowing screen.
..
The golden afterglow of the sunset spilled across the streets of Viridian City, bathing every stone slab in a warm, gentle radiance. Growlithe lay quietly on the training ground, ears twitching ever so slightly as if listening for something. Its gaze remained fixed toward the distant street—toward the direction Officer Jenny Maple once ran so often.
A breeze drifted by, brushing the fluffy fur of its tail, but failed to blow away the unwavering persistence and sorrow in its eyes.
Growlithe had always been an extraordinarily loyal Pokémon. Ever since it was a puppy, Officer Jenny Maple had adopted and trained it herself. She was a gentle and resolute woman, a Viridian City's dedicated officer, and a Pokémon trainer who unabashedly loved her partners. Growlithe was the very first Pokémon she raised with her own hands, and also her closest companion.
They trained together, patrolled together, and protected the peace of Viridian City together. Growlithe was clever and brave, always understanding her commands, and she rewarded it with genuine warmth and praise.
But fate is merciless.
That day, an unexpected explosion rocked Viridian's chemical plant. Thick smoke surged skyward as flames roared uncontrollably. Maple responded immediately, racing to the scene on her police motorcycle. Growlithe wanted to follow, but she worried the area would be too dangerous. She hardened her heart and left it at the training ground.
"Growlithe, stay here and be good. I'll be back soon."
She patted its head, firm yet tender.
Growlithe somehow sensed something was wrong. It trailed her steps until she climbed onto her motorcycle. Only then did it stop, reluctantly watching her silhouette fade into the distance, its tail drooping lifelessly.
But Officer Jenny Maple never returned.
The explosion had been far worse than reported. Flames spread through the industrial area at terrifying speed, trapping workers inside. Maple had rushed into the most dangerous zone to rescue one of them. When rescuers finally reached the area, they found only her police cap and her fallen motorcycle. Her figure had vanished completely into the sea of fire.
Growlithe did not understand any of that.
Day after day, it continued lying on the training ground, waiting for her to come back. It pricked its ears at every approaching step, every engine's roar, and each time someone neared, it stood immediately, eyes shining with hopeful anticipation—only to be disappointed again and again.
Viridian's residents felt heartbroken for Growlithe. They tried offering food and water, tried taking it home, but it refused to leave the training ground. As if refusing to move could somehow guarantee that Officer Jenny would return.
The elderly man, Maple's widowed husband, watched Growlithe's thinning figure with growing guilt and grief. He knew Growlithe was waiting for someone who would never return. He once tried carrying it away, but Growlithe struggled desperately, whimpering in refusal, until it escaped from his arms and returned to its vigil.
Time passed. Growlithe's once-bright coat dulled. Its movements slowed. It no longer played, no longer showed interest in food. It merely lay there quietly, as if waiting in this way was its last means of holding onto her memory.
The elderly man came every day with food and water, though Growlithe ate little. Sometimes it lifted its head to look at him, only to lower it again, resuming its silent, patient watching.
Pokémon typically lived long lives. Growlithe could easily have lived for decades. But prolonged grief had eroded its will to live. Its body weakened day by day.
And finally, on a quiet evening, Growlithe closed its eyes and left the world.
When the old man found it lying motionless on the training ground, no more breathing in its small body, his vision blurred with tears. He lifted Growlithe gently, carried it home, and whispered to the still form:
"You can finally see her now."
Viridian residents held a simple funeral for Growlithe, burying it beneath a large tree beside the training ground—the place it had spent every day waiting. The old man erected a small stone marker with his own hands:
"Here lies the loyal Growlithe—forever guarding its trainer."
From then on, at sunset, some claimed to glimpse Growlithe's silhouette lying on the ground, unmoving, as though still awaiting her return. People said that was its spirit—continuing to protect its beloved trainer and the land it once patrolled.
Growlithe's story spread through Viridian City for years, teaching people the meaning of true loyalty, of bonds that refused to fade. With its entire life, it embodied what it meant to be a loyal partner.
Perhaps, in another world, Officer Jenny Maple still rides her motorcycle forward—while Growlithe runs faithfully by her side, just like always.
…
"…I…"
After watching the film, Corey sat in silence for a long time. Then, suddenly, he made a decision. He immediately took leave and traveled to the Kanto region. After conducting interviews and researching the facts behind the story, he confirmed its truth. He returned to his room that very night, tapping on his keyboard while wiping the tears endlessly spilling down his face.
He couldn't stop crying. He couldn't hold back the emotions tearing through him.
…
Reflections After Watching the Loyal Growlithe
[It was early spring. Afternoon sunlight filtered through a mottled window frame and fell across the old wooden table. I sat inside the elderly man's small home with a cup of hot tea between my hands. The steam carried a faint fragrance, but it could not wash away the lingering sadness in the air.
The elderly man sat across from me. His wrinkles bore the weight of time. His gaze was cloudy yet warm.
He introduced himself as Locke, a retired factory worker. Life was modest but peaceful. I originally visited to gather stories about Pokémon trainers—hoping to find touching accounts for my research.
But when I mentioned the name "Growlithe," he paused. Just briefly—but unmistakably. Then his expression settled again, and he spoke, voice low and hoarse:
"Growlithe… that was a very special Pokémon."
I immediately sensed a story behind those words.
"Were you its trainer?" I asked.
The old man shook his head with a faint, bittersweet smile.
"No. I was the husband of its trainer."
I froze.
Behind this simple sentence, I knew, lay a hidden tragedy.
He drew in a breath and began to recount memories long buried.
His wife, Jenny Maple, was not only a Pokémon trainer but also a brave police officer. She had loved Pokémon since childhood, especially Growlithe. When she was young, she adopted one and named it "Hachiko." From that moment, they were inseparable.
Hachiko grew up by her side, and when she later joined the police force, it became her loyal partner during patrols and missions. It was vigilant, quick, and gifted—often sensing danger in advance and helping her avoid harm. Their bond surpassed that of ordinary trainer and Pokémon.
The old man's eyes softened.
"Their harmony… it was something anyone would envy."
But destiny is cruel.
The old man recounted the explosion at the chemical plant. The poisonous gas, the uncontrollable flames, the danger beyond anything anyone predicted. His wife rushed inside without hesitation.
Three days later, the search team could only find charred debris—nothing identifiable. Official records declared her deceased, but no remains were recovered.
Here, the old man's voice broke.
"She just… never came home."
For him and Hachiko, it was a wound that could not heal.
Hachiko grew despondent. It no longer responded to anyone, not even to him. Every day, it lay at the old training ground, staring toward the distant streets as if waiting for her motorcycle to appear.
He tried everything—feeding it, walking it along her usual patrol route, encouraging it to play. But nothing reached it.
"It was waiting for her," the old man murmured.
"It never believed she was gone."
Growlithe's species could live more than twenty years. But Hachiko's health deteriorated day by day until the day the old man found it lying in the backyard, eyes open, staring into the distance—its body already cold.
He fell to his knees, tears flooding down.
"You finally… waited long enough to see her, didn't you?"
In that moment, he said, he felt as though he saw his wife standing before the little Pokémon, reaching out her hand. And Hachiko's tail gave the faintest wag—answering her call.
I could not speak for a long time.
Hachiko's unwavering loyalty was overwhelming. It embodied a bond that transcended death, a devotion that never faded.
The old man wiped his tears and forced a small smile.
"Maybe no one remembers them now. But their bond… was stronger than anything."
Some feelings do not fade with time.
Some bonds do not break with death.
Hachiko had written a legend of loyalty and love with the entirety of its short life.
When I left, sunset once again painted the streets in warm gold. The old man stood at his doorway, watching me go. His silhouette looked lonely in the dusk, yet his eyes held an unshakeable resolve—as though he too was waiting for the day he could reunite with his wife and Hachiko in another world.
I will never forget Hachiko's story.
Nor the loyalty that transcends life itself.
…
"Truly… Director Edward has brought us a masterpiece."
Corey whispered those words with deep emotion.
He genuinely believed it.
Edward was astonishing—able to create a work so powerful, so moving.
(End of Chapter)