ANTAR #001

The caravan arrived just after dawn, when the village was still deciding whether to wake up fully or pretend it was still night. It did not roll in loudly. It did not announce itself. It simply appeared at the edge of the earth road, where dust meets dew and footsteps still remember yesterday.
The caravan looked familiar and unfamiliar at the same time. Wooden, yes—but the wood carried patterns no local carpenter would claim. The wheels were round in a way that suggested patience, not speed. Cloth panels fluttered lightly, woven with symbols that seemed to shift when the eye lingered too long.
People noticed before they understood. A child stopped chasing a chicken. A woman paused mid-laughter with a basket on her hip. An old man smiled without knowing why. No one felt alarmed. Curiosity arrived first, then warmth.
The village itself leaned forward. Stilted homes watched from above. Palm leaves whispered to each other. Somewhere, water boiled. Somewhere else, incense forgot its original purpose and simply smelled like welcome.
ANTAR did not step out immediately.
The caravan stood there as if catching its breath, as if respecting the rhythm of the place. It had traveled far—not just across land, but across moments. It had learned that arrival is not an act of intrusion, but of listening.
By the time ANTAR finally descended, the village had already accepted him.
Not because they understood where he came from.
But because something about him felt like a memory returning gently, rather than a stranger arriving loudly.
End of Log #001