ANTAR #002

The restaurant was not called a restaurant by the village. It was simply the place where food appeared when people were hungry. Low tables, uneven stools, steam rising from pots that had been simmering longer than memory. ANTAR chose a seat near the edge. Not inside. Not outside. Exactly where the shade paused before giving way to light. Conversation softened—but did not stop. “He eats like us,” someone whispered, surprised by their own relief. “No,” another replied, “he pauses before he eats. Like he’s remembering something.” A child leaned closer and reported seriously, “He smiles at the bowl before touching it.” Plates arrived without ceremony. Rice. Broth. Something green and fragrant. ANTAR accepted each dish with a nod that felt older than manners. He tasted slowly, as if checking whether time itself had changed flavor since he last passed through a place like this. People studied him indirectly—through reflections on metal pots, through the steam, through the spaces between words. No one could quite agree on how he looked. “Tall, I think.” “No, average.” “I didn’t notice his height.” “I noticed his calm.” The cook watched from behind the counter, wiping the same spot repeatedly. “He eats like someone who knows this meal,” she said finally. “But also like someone who may never eat it again.” Coins were placed on the table—more than necessary, arranged carefully. ANTAR stood, adjusted nothing, and thanked no one in particular. As he left, conversation returned to normal volume. But something had shifted. The food tasted the same. The moment did not.

end of log #002