ANTAR #014

The track was prepared for speed.

Lines were painted with confidence. Flags stood alert. Spikes tapped nervously against the surface as athletes stretched, focused on seconds that refused to slow down for anyone.

ANTAR arrived walking.

It was 1994, somewhere that felt like Russia even if it wasn’t trying to explain itself. Cold air, serious faces, officials in coats that had seen too many events and too little surprise.

Six nationalities waited at the starting line. Muscles tuned. Breathing rehearsed. Eyes fixed forward.

ANTAR crossed the track gently, directly facing them.

Not hurried.
Not apologetic.
Not lost.

Heads turned in sequence. Not the crowd’s—the athletes’.

A runner from lane three forgot her rhythm. Lane five frowned, recalculating. Someone from lane one laughed once, quietly, then stopped. Officials exchanged looks usually reserved for paperwork errors.

“Is he allowed here?” someone asked.

ANTAR adjusted his bag and continued walking, as if tracks were just paths that happened to believe in urgency.

The gun did not fire.

Time, briefly, misplaced itself.

ANTAR looked at the runners with genuine interest—not at their speed, but at their waiting. He nodded, as if acknowledging effort already spent. Then, just before questions could organize themselves, he stepped off the track.

The race resumed.

Fast. Clean. Recorded.

Later, commentators would struggle to describe why the moment before the start felt longer than it should have. Athletes would remember it differently, each convinced ANTAR had looked directly at them.

Why did he arrive?
Where was he going?
What was he doing there?

Only time knew.

And it wasn’t saying.

End of Log #014