It was an oddly quiet afternoon.
The sky wore a soft grey, a veil of clouds drifting lazily above, occasionally letting in streaks of sunlight that kissed the garden in patches. The usual warmth of this hour felt subdued.

The garden was mostly empty, except for one figure walking in with slow, almost reluctant steps.

It was Mayan.

His head was tilted downward, eyes locked on the ground. Hands buried in the deep pockets of his loose pajamas, and for the first time, he wasn’t carrying his usual leather bag.

His steps brought him near the old bench, the one that had quietly memorized his presence by now.

But today, before sitting down, he stood there for a long breath. Quietly studying it. His eyes traced the weathered wood, the slight tilt in the armrest, the faint scratches on the edge. He looked at it not like someone visiting a routine spot, but like someone returning after a pause too long to ignore.

It felt like weeks had passed since he last sat there though the world had only moved a single day.

He sat on the bench, eyes drawn to a quiet rustle ahead.

Two squirrels danced across the pathway in front of him small, brown blurs of life in an otherwise still afternoon. At first, it seemed like they were simply playing. One would run, the other would chase. Then they’d stop. Wait. Circle back. And then run again. A loop with no beginning or end.

But the more Mayan watched, the more he saw.

They’d run like they wanted to escape one another. Then stop as if the distance hurt more than the closeness ever could. They’d retreat, only to inch back again, cautiously, quietly. Sometimes one would hesitate, and the other would turn first. Sometimes they’d collide mid-step, freeze, and then continue the dance.

Mayan didn’t blink.
Not once.

His body remained still, but inside, something stirred. Something mirrored.

Maybe… it was like that with people too.
Somewhere between the fear of closeness and the ache of distance, we dance.
Pushing away when it feels too much, and returning when it feels too far.
Longing for connection, terrified of losing ourselves in it.
Wanting to be seen, but not too clearly.
Loved, but not broken by it.

He didn’t know why—but he saw something in those two squirrels that words often failed to explain.

Maybe they were lovers.
Maybe they were strangers.
Maybe they were just trying to figure out if the world was safer apart or together.

But whatever they were… they always came back.

And in that quiet loop of fur and rustling leaves, Mayan felt a strange comfort.
A quiet voice inside him whispered,
“Some things, no matter how far they run… always return.”