Silence Below

Occasionally, an ant—something smaller than it—looks to shelter during a rain. Not here, where it usually ends up underfoot. In a world where boots outnumber butterflies in some spaces.

Each season, a variation returns—smaller than a thumb, softer than the moss it leans on. Sometimes he grows crooked, sometimes straight. Sometimes not at all. Most years, he doesn’t make it past the first careless step.

But this time, something changed.

Someone crouched low. A shadow paused. A lens blinked—and stayed for a reason other than to eliminate or be protected.

And just like that, he wasn’t forgotten.