ANTAR #006
The rats noticed him before the people did.
They were everywhere—on steps, on railings, in corners that had stopped pretending to be corners long ago. Thousands of them. Breathing. Watching. Living without apology. The temple hummed softly with movement, prayers, and the sound of small feet rearranging the floor.
ANTAR stepped inside without hesitation.
The rats did not scatter. That interested him.
Visitors tiptoed, shrieked quietly, negotiated personal boundaries with squeaks and whiskers. Cameras clicked nervously. Guides repeated facts no one was listening to. ANTAR simply stood still, hands relaxed, eyes attentive.
Rats climbed. Rats paused. Rats tilted their heads.
They were not impressed. They were not afraid. But they were curious.
“This one is different,” their collective silence seemed to say.
A white rat stopped directly in front of him and looked up, as if waiting for instructions that would not come. ANTAR nodded politely. He had learned long ago that some conversations do not require words.
People stared.
“He’s not reacting,” someone whispered.
“Is he brave?” asked another.
“No,” a third said slowly, “he’s… familiar.”
The rats gathered closer—not swarming, just arranging themselves. Their heads lifted in unison, noses testing the air around him. ANTAR felt it too. Recognition without history. Acceptance without explanation.
He observed how devotion had made space for coexistence. How faith had trained fear to sit quietly in the corner. How even the smallest beings understood when they were being seen, not judged.
When ANTAR finally moved, the rats parted effortlessly.
They watched him leave.
Long after the visitors forgot him, the rats remembered.
End of Log #006
