Dog Lover Stories: "1095 Days of Loyalty: Marshmallow's lonely waiting" - The Design Story Behind JARDIN DES FONTAINES

"1095 Days of Loyalty: Marshmallow's lonely waiting"

That spring, when the azaleas bloomed, the first petal fell just as the sunlight was perfect. Dr. William Harvey knelt down, fastening the brown leather collar around his longtime companion, a Labrador named Marshmallow. His fingers trembled slightly at the buckle, and a corner of a plane ticket peeked out from the pocket of his black suit, a detail Marshmallow would always hold in its heart.

"Be good. Wait for me." William ruffled Marshmallow’s head. The dog’s warm tongue brushed his wrist, leaving a damp trace. That evening, the airport shuttle carried away the silhouette of the man in the black suit. Marshmallow sat at the bus stop, waiting. 

By the time the first cherry blossom fell, Marshmallow could distinguish the engine hum of the 6:30 p.m. airport shuttle. Every evening, it stationed itself at the bus stop near home, ears twitching faintly, nose quivering. The bus doors hissed open, passengers poured out, and Marshmallow’s black nose eagerly sifted the air for that familiar scent—disinfectant mingled with a hint of cologne. Strangers passed by—dress shoes, heels, sneakers—but never the familiar brown leather shoes. Disappointed time and again, Marshmallow would only flick its tail and return the next day, right on time.

"Poor boy, waiting for its owner again," the old woman selling fruit by the station muttered, shaking her head. She pulled a biscuit from her pocket. Marshmallow sniffed it politely but didn’t eat, settling back into place, eyes fixed on the direction of the departing bus.

When the second year’s rainy season arrived, Marshmallow’s fur was perpetually damp. A livestream crew tried to coax it with strips of duck meat, but it suddenly bolted toward a woman in a white dress—a doctor. It sniffed her urgently. She smelled of disinfectant, but not the scent of the one it waited for. Marshmallow’s tail drooped, and it trudged back to the station.

By the third summer, Marshmallow’s steps grew sluggish. Its once-bright eyes were clouded with a grayish haze. Still, it arrived at the bus stop every day, relying on memory and scent to find its spot.

That third summer, Dr. Jane’s hands trembled as she examined Marshmallow. The tumor had spread throughout its body; those once-vivid eyes had gone blind long ago. On the operating table, Jane’s tears stained the autopsy report. The optic nerve had fully atrophied three years prior, and a brain tumor pressed on the pain center. "How could it…" Jane stared at the surveillance footage, watching the blind Marshmallow stumble to the bus stop every day at 6:20 p.m., finding its exact spot and wagging its tail at nothing. "It couldn’t see, yet it was always on time…" For 1,095 days, Marshmallow had used scent and muscle memory to return to the same airport bus stop, waiting for its owner.

When the collar was removed, a yellowed note slipped from its inner lining. Dr. Jane unfolded it, revealing William’s scrawled handwriting: "Marshmallow, wait for me."