It was 3 PM, sharp—just like every other day—and Mayan arrived without a minute’s delay. He walked slowly, as if the garden knew him and he knew the garden. Dressed in his usual white T-shirt, black pajamas, and worn slippers, he held a small leather bag in his right hand. There was no phone in sight, no laptop or distraction—whether by choice or by circumstance, no one could tell.

He made his way to the same bench, his bench, and took his seat with a kind of silent reverence. From the bag, he pulled out his diary, flipping it open with the ease of habit. But before the pen touched the page, his eyes wandered—scanning the grass swaying gently, the birds flitting from tree to tree, the breeze brushing leaves like a whispered memory, and the people—always the people.

Then, slowly, thoughtfully, he began to write. A sentence here. A pause. A gaze into the sky. A thought scattered, then found again on the paper.

But today was different. It was past 6, and Mayan was still there. Unmoving. Still writing. Still present. Unusual for someone who usually left before the shadows stretched too far.

A few minutes later, a man appeared—somewhere in his 50s, dressed in a formal coat that didn’t quite match the relaxed rhythm of the garden. He approached Mayan and spoke softly. Their conversation was brief, barely audible, but enough. Mayan nodded, gathered his things, and quietly walked away with the man. But today, it had company—until the next soul arrived.