令和８年1月17日（土）
朝5時起床 喉がかれてて声があまり出ない まだ風邪の影響が残ってる しつこいな
姉も元気なのだが同じく声がかれている 姉の方はもっとひどくてほとんど声が出ない
昨日医者に行ったそうで診断は風邪だそうだ
チャットGPTに今日の英語の物語作ってもらった時かなりてこづってた
表示が今までと違ってたしポップアップも出てきた 頑張って改良しているのだろうけどうまく働かない時もある チャットGPTを使い始めた頃に比べると進歩しているのはわかる 一年後また振り返ってみたら同じように思うのだろうな
コーヒー淹れるか 後風邪薬も飲んでこよう
今日も早々と英語が楽しい mean いまいちよくわからなかったけど今日はすっきりした 木と木になっている実をイメージすれば一発 いじわるmeanは別物と考えればいい
なんかでも進捗わるいな こういうところで頭の良し悪しが出るんだろうね もう少しアビイティ上げたい ホント時間かかるな
DUOLINGOの有料期限が今日で切れる グーグルペイをコンビニで買ってきた
入金はしたがうまくいくかな？
今日の絵
The Station That Still Listens
Every morning, Tom walked past the old station on his way to work. The building no longer served trains, yet it remained in the same place, quiet and patient, as if it were waiting for something—or someone—to return.
Most people barely noticed it. They looked at their phones, adjusted their bags, and walked faster. When they spoke about the station at all, they said the same thing: “It’s just an abandoned place.” To them, it was already finished.
But Tom felt differently. Each time he passed by, he sensed that the station was not empty. It was full of time—layers of mornings, evenings, farewells, and promises that had once filled the air.
One winter morning, the wind was unusually strong. It pushed against Tom’s coat and made him slow down. As he reached the station, he heard something. It wasn’t loud, and it wasn’t clear. It felt more like a memory than a sound.
He stopped walking.
Am I hearing this now, or am I remembering it? he wondered.
The sound shifted gently. First, it felt like footsteps on the platform. Then it became a distant announcement, calm and familiar. For a brief moment, it even sounded like laughter. None of these sounds truly existed anymore, yet they felt alive inside him.
Tom placed his hand on the cold wall of the station. The wall did not move, but something inside him did. In that moment, he realized the station was not trying to speak. It was listening.
It listened to everyone who passed by—their worries about the day ahead, their quiet hopes, and the thoughts they never said out loud. Most people walked too fast to notice, but the station listened anyway.
Tom closed his eyes for a moment. He thought about his own life: the job he had chosen without much thought, the dreams he had carefully placed “for later,” and the questions he kept avoiding because they felt too heavy.
The wind suddenly calmed. The street grew quiet. In that stillness, Tom understood something simple but important: moving forward did not always mean moving fast.
Sometimes, it meant stopping. Sometimes, it meant listening. And sometimes, it meant letting old places remind you of things you once cared about.
Tom opened his eyes and smiled softly. He continued walking toward work, but his steps felt lighter than before. Behind him, the old station remained silent—patiently listening to the next passerby.
※ 日本語に訳さず、情景と気持ちの流れを感じられたらOK。