ANTAR #010

The aircraft was already impatient when ANTAR arrived. Lights hummed with confidence. The aisle smelled faintly of recycled air and optimism. Everyone else moved with the practiced urgency of people who knew where they were going—or at least pretended to. ANTAR did not. He stood for a moment, allowing the plane to finish its announcements. Then he walked in, carrying his bag carefully, as if it contained something that might be offended by turbulence. Passengers glanced up, then away. They could not place him. He was not anxious enough to be a first-time flyer. Not bored enough to be a frequent one. He did not scroll. He did not rush. He observed. ANTAR sat down with his bag firmly on his lap. The cabin crew noticed immediately. A smiling crew member approached, armed with training, diagrams, and patience. She gestured gently toward the overhead bin. Then to the seatbelt. Then to the general idea of compliance. ANTAR listened attentively. He nodded. He did not move. “I am… fine here,” he said kindly, patting the bag. She tried again, slower this time, as if volume had ever solved understanding. ANTAR smiled with the warmth of someone who had survived many instructions across centuries. “This,” he explained, “does not like being separated.” She paused. Reconsidered her script. Chose a smile. “Just for takeoff,” she said. ANTAR considered gravity, velocity, and trust. He adjusted the bag slightly. The seatbelt clicked. A small victory for procedure. As the plane lifted, ANTAR felt the familiar shift—the one between places, between moments. He watched clouds arrange themselves into thoughts. Around him, people relaxed into entertainment. ANTAR held his bag. The plane did not ask questions. It simply went. End of Log #010