The tourist’s dog was tall and had dark black fur.

Only after I returned it safely to the owner, did I realise its sheer size and stature.

I asked the owner what the dog’s title was, if it had one.

To my surprise, the dog spoke first. I looked in his deep brown eyes as he said “Yamabiko”.

I greeted Yamabiko with a bow, for that name is legendary within my past studies at the facility, and told him my real name.

I wondered what he was doing leaving his owner after she gave him such an honourable name, but left that thought behind assuming that it is merely a name, and dogs cannot always control their urgers.

Regardless, Yamabiko and the tourist were eternally grateful. The tourist said she would regale telling her friends how she met Cowboy, and that I saved her dog Yamabiko.

I told her that Cowboy is merely a name. She replied that, in saying that, I sounded a lot like Cowboy.

I asked which way I should go to find my soul, for the exhibition left me feeling rather hopeless. She hesitated for a while but explained that I already knew where I left it.

The tourist was not wrong; I knew I left it on that mountain, but I told her that it was meant for someone to pick up later, and that the mountain is incredibly far away.

She explained to me that someone had picked it up. That an old soul was hanging onto it for dear life until I followed the right path. She suggested for me to travel and trust that the old souls are passing around my soul until it is handed to the correct person. She told me not to worry, for my puzzle was almost complete, yet I must continue travelling and learning of the world before I am returned with two souls.

Yamabiko then spoke up, suggesting that it might be worth sending a letter to who I thought it might be.

Upon saying that, Yamabiko’s owner swiftly hit him on the head.

She apologised and said “a dog can only dream”.

So I left once again and wondered whether heading East was the correct move. I decided to head as far West as I possibly could. I took the first mode of transport available to me.

Though I was not dressed as Cowboy in the slightest, many people recognised me as I walked and said hello to me with a nod. It became clear to me how many people were watching us.

To my understanding, Cowboy is respected, yet given his own space, as the tourists are well aware of the weight he carries. Cowboy rarely sleeps and is often considered cold, cocky, and with incredibly high walls. Most of the tourists are aware of his greatest folly: his broken heart.

The tourists are kind to Cowboy, as the things they write, create, paint, film, and speak of show him how to mend that broken heart. The tourists have unfortunately met many a Cowboy, and they all say the same thing,

“Get him his love back”.

Deep down they all know how Cowboy’s story turns out, and I did too.

However, it takes a long walk, some light magic, an old handwritten poem about the Summer wind, a pen pal in Marrakesh, and love in your heart.