However, despite everything those netizens were saying, many people still held doubts. After all, in everyone's eyes, Director Edward had a bit of a reputation and he did have a history.
Back then he said One Missed Call was a mystery film, then tricked a whole bunch of mystery-movie fans into going in so he could "slaughter" them with a horror plot twist. That wasn't the first time he'd done something like that, either. So, most people chose to remain skeptical.
But as more and more film critics stepped forward and confirmed their opinions, everyone finally became certain that Edward hadn't made a horror film this time. Yet, while reading the critics' comments, the audience only grew more curious—what exactly were these people talking about? Why was everyone saying this film was heartwarming?
With this curiosity in mind, countless people entered the theaters wanting to see what Edward's comeback project actually was. Among those people was a well-known critic—someone famous specifically for being eccentric, pulling bizarre stunts all the time, and even so had over five million real followers, which was not a small number by any means.
"Director Edward's new work, huh? I'm pretty curious about this movie," the critic, named Rock, said with a grin while speaking into his phone. He didn't record videos, but he still enjoyed sharing his thoughts with his companions. As for his friends claiming he'd end up sobbing? Rock only snorted in contempt.
In Rock's view, there was no way he'd cry. Not even a little. He believed himself to be a very unique person—his emotional threshold was high, and any film that tried to force tears with cheap emotional manipulation would only earn a thorough verbal beating from him.
With this mindset, Rock arrived at the cinema.
When the movie began, he was quickly drawn into the story. At first he was still eating popcorn, but the speed at which he ate gradually slowed… and slowed… until eventually he couldn't eat at all.
He felt as if he had been placed in a world of swirling snow. Right before his eyes lay a small Growlithe, curled up in the snow, waiting for a trainer who would never return.
But in that moment, the little Growlithe finally waited long enough. It finally saw the Officer Jenny it had been separated from for so long. Officer Jenny Maple knelt down and pulled Hachiko into her arms, her entire body trembling. Her reddened eyes and the tears streaming uncontrollably down her face seemed to reveal the tangled storm of emotions inside her.
At the same time, Rock's own tears began dripping down—but he kept trying to hold them back.
Yes, the scene was well-designed, but—
[This story is based on real events. Many years after Officer Jenny Maple's passing, Hachiko the Growlithe that waited for its trainer also eventually died.]
Just such a short sentence, yet it instantly shattered Rock's emotional defenses.
His tears fell uncontrollably.
This was real? This was actually real?
It was overwhelming. Rock never imagined that something like this could truly happen in the real world. He had always believed such things were impossible—but reality proved him wrong.
His tears kept falling, and he cried to the point he couldn't control himself—like when he was a child and finally bought the candy he had always wanted, only to accidentally drop it into the toilet. Back then it felt suffocatingly painful. But now…
Now it felt like losing a loved one.
The entire theater was filled with people unable to contain their grief. The audience remained silent for a long time, the sound of crying echoing through the hall. The atmosphere left everyone emotionally crushed.
After returning home, Rock immediately wrote an extremely long and detailed review, explaining all his thoughts. He genuinely believed Edward had created history with this film. It was incredibly unique—so unique, in fact, that in the future, when people raised Growlithe or Arcanine, they might start naming them Hachiko. That alone showed how impactful the movie was.
But Rock didn't think that was a bad thing. The film was truly excellent and the fact it was based on real events only pushed its emotional power beyond normal limits. It was almost unbelievable.
…
[Hachiko, A Growlithe's Tale: A Story of Emotion Crossing Time Itself]
When the lights of the cinema came back on, my eyes were still wet…
"Hachiko, A Growlithe's Tale" is not a film that requires complicated interpretation. It tells the simplest story—one about loyalty, waiting, and love. Yet it is precisely this simplicity that makes the emotional impact strike directly at the heart.
As a professional film critic, I've seen far too many films that try so hard to be sentimental but end up empty. But Hachiko through the most restrained shots, delivers a gentle but devastating rescue for the emotional drought in modern people's hearts.
The scenes of Hachiko waiting at the station every day seem repetitive, yet hold profound meaning. The director doesn't use exaggerated music or manipulative close-ups. Instead, time simply flows—Hachiko waits from youthful vigor to trembling old age, from spring blossom to winter snow.
This nearly cruel span of time forces us to face a painful truth:
In today's world obsessed with efficiency and practicality, what could possibly be more precious than unconditional waiting?
When Hachiko sits alone outside the station in the dusk, what it waits for is not just a person—it is the emotional certainty that modern life has almost erased.
The film's treatment of loss is especially restrained. Unlike those that rely on dramatic breakdowns, Hachiko lets sorrow seep in naturally. When news arrives that the trainer passed away suddenly, Hachiko simply stares silently in the direction the trainer once left.
No howling. No dramatic wailing.
This silence is far more powerful than any scream.
Because it represents the deepest form of understanding—Hachiko knows the trainer will never come back, yet chooses to wait anyway.
This kind of persistence, knowing the outcome yet continuing, is the part of humanity we most easily lose.
In an era dominated by instant messaging and fragmented entertainment, Hachiko is a mirror reflecting our emotional poverty. We replace expressions with emojis, care with likes. We forget that some emotions require time to settle, and courage to persist.
Hachiko moves global audiences not because of cultural context, but because it reveals a universal emotional crisis—
In a world changing too fast, how much patience do we still have for waiting?
How much can we still give to pure emotional bonds?
At the end of the film, old Hachiko rests peacefully on the station bench. No dramatic music. No manipulation. Yet the entire theater falls into deep silence.
This is not a story about death.
It is a parable about how to love with dignity.
Hachiko uses its entire life to define loyalty, not blind obedience, but the courage to uphold a promise even when the other person will never return.
This quality is so scarce in modern society that witnessing it makes us feel ashamed—and deeply moved.
Stepping out of the theater into the gentle autumn sunlight, I suddenly understood why "Hachiko" will become a timeless classic. Because with the simplest story, it awakens our buried yearning for pure emotion.
In this era of emotional scarcity, perhaps we all need to learn from Hachiko. To hold steady in uncertainty, to let time reveal what truly matters.
After all, the most precious things in life are not the pleasures we instantly obtain, but the courage to give even when we expect no return.
…
Aside from Rock, many others also joined the discussion. People talked about Hachiko, about Growlithe, about the explosion and the fire. Because of this renewed attention, more details of the past incident resurfaced. People grew furious—if it hadn't been for the reckless actions of those individuals back then, perhaps the Officer Jenny Maples wouldn't have died.
Those responsible were dragged back into public scrutiny and faced backlash and investigation. The public outrage continued rising.
At the same time, countless Growlithe were given the name "Hachiko." When people saw a Growlithe, their first thought became Hachiko. The popularity of raising Growlithe skyrocketed—after all, who wouldn't want a loyal and adorable Pokémon like that by their side?
…
"The box office hit one hundred million that fast? It's already past one hundred forty million?" Edward muttered the next day as he looked at the numbers, feeling it was almost absurd.
In just a few days it broke one hundred million, this was a phenomenon-level movie. And keep in mind, it wasn't a horror film, nor was it charity-themed.
This time, Edward planned to use the profit to grow his company. His studio needed expansion, and the screenwriter he had recently worked with, who was developing Whispering Corridors, was progressing well. Edward was very optimistic about that film. It had unique elements, though also some challenges.
Thinking about all this, Edward developed some ideas. He planned to handle things slowly, pushing the project forward step by step.
Meanwhile, news about Hachiko, A Growlithe's Tale continued to circulate, public discussion remained high, and Edward successfully returned to public attention. Many people wondered whether Edward would stop making horror films and instead switch to touching emotional works.
But Edward himself never said that.
What troubled him now was—
What horror film should he shoot for his big horror-return?
This question gave him a headache. He had written plenty of material over the years, but making a good horror movie was not easy. Thinking too long made his scalp tingle. Still, he planned to at least try—see what kind of effect he could create.
Edward stretched lazily. He was currently vacationing in his villa. Sunlight filtered through sparse treetops, falling across moss-covered paths. A quiet forest stretched outward; the lake was mirror-like, framed by reeds; a few Pokémon played by the lakeside, splashing water.
A skittish Sandshrew peeked from behind a tree, while an elegant Chansey strolled leisurely near the lake's edge. The water was crystal clear, fish swimming freely, occasionally leaping up and shattering the shimmering surface. Towering trees formed a tranquil refuge, and distant birdsong blended with the breeze rustling through leaves, forming a natural symphony. Sunlight filtered through the canopy, leaving dappled patterns on the forest floor, giving the place a mysterious tranquility.
Pokémon and nature coexisted in harmony, enjoying the peaceful sanctuary.
Then suddenly—two Pokémon burst out, locked in combat.
Charizard opened its massive jaws and unleashed blazing flames, scorching and bright like the sun, illuminating the entire battlefield.
Blastoise dodged nimbly, counterattacking with powerful jets of water. The streams sliced through the air like blades, extinguishing the flames enveloping Charizard's body.
Charizard roared in fury, flapping its wings violently to create sweeping gusts. Heat waves rolled outward. Blastoise inhaled deeply, releasing a torrent of water that collided with the inferno, creating a massive explosion of steam and energy.
Flames and water intertwined in a magnificent clash. Charizard soared upward, bringing a storm of fire. Blastoise sprang into the air with surprising agility, turning into a streak of movement—electric light flickered across its shell as it circled Charizard and unleashed a bolt of thunder.
The lightning tore through the air, engulfing Charizard, forming a towering electric barrier.
Charizard roared, erupting with a burst of brilliant flames, transforming into a blazing dragon that lunged at the lightning barrier. Fire and thunder collided, sending shards of rock flying, the violent waves of energy marking both the beginning and the end of a mysterious moment.
Their fierce duel unfolded in this enchanted Pokémon world like a destined showdown—intense yet strangely harmonious, each side pushing the other to their limits but never aiming to cause real harm.
Edward watched curiously. Their strength was impressive but why were they fighting? Sparring, perhaps? Surely not grinding battle experience, right?
"But maybe this is just how wild Pokémon fight," he muttered thoughtfully.
Then he suddenly remembered Resident Evil.
"…What if I made a biological-horror Pokémon film?"
A zombie Pikachu?
An undead Eevee?
It actually didn't sound impossible.
But such monsters wouldn't be truly terrifying if the protagonists could fight back.
A real horror movie requires stripping away the characters' ability to resist—leaving them unable to fight, unable to defend, forced only to flee. If they don't run… they die. That kind of helplessness is what creates true fear.
(End of Chapter)