The Ants of ZANABIA

In ZANABIA, not everything that is big is dangerous. Some things are simply… mindful. The ants of ZANABIA are tall—taller than most garden fences elsewhere in the world. Broad-shouldered, steady-footed, endlessly patient. They move in numbers that feel countless, yet never chaotic. There is no panic in their march, no urgency that spills into fear. They are many, but they are calm. You will never find them inside a Zanabian home. Not once. Not ever. They understand boundaries better than most humans do. They remain outdoors, in forests, beneath the soil, under stone, ice, and time itself. Their underground cities are rumored to be vast and luminous—carved chambers warmed by the planet’s breath, corridors etched with quiet purpose. They take only what is needed. They leave no scars. And then there is December 29. Every year, without summons or signal, the ants begin to rise. From hills, roots, riverbanks, and deep unseen layers of ZANABIA, they assemble. Long lines form naturally, not led, not forced—simply known. They walk toward the lake. The Lake of ZANABIA receives them without spectacle. No speeches. No banners. Just reflection. The ants stand—thousands upon thousands—perfectly still at the water’s edge. Some say they are remembering. Others say they are listening. A few believe the lake speaks only once a year, and only to those who do not interrupt. Zanabians watch from a distance, respectfully. Children wave. Elders nod. No one is afraid. Because the ants are harmless. Because strength does not always demand dominance. Because discipline can exist without aggression. By dusk, the ants turn back. The lake returns to silence. And ZANABIA exhales, knowing that once again, balance has been acknowledged. Big. Tall. Countless. And profoundly peaceful— just like ZANABIA itself. 🐜❄️