Ant dragged himself through the park, eyes on the ground. The leaf pressed into his back with every step. It had been there when he woke up this morning. It was there yesterday. It would be there tomorrow. He wanted to be rid of it more than anything, but he had learned that wanting changed nothing. He passed the same worn circle in the dirt he had passed a hundred times before. The grooves curved in a perfect ring where his leaf had scraped the ground, round and round, during all those times he had tried. Tried to shake it off. Tried to leave it behind. The marks were deep now, carved by years of the same useless hope. Ahead, a small mound rose from the path. Tunnels dotted its sides. Other ants moved in and out, carrying things, building things, living without weight. Ant stopped at the entrance. He twisted his body and felt the leaf shift. For a moment, he let himself imagine setting it down inside one of those dark tunnels and walking out alone. He stepped closer to the mound and lowered himself, pressing his back against the ground. The leaf slid off and landed in the dirt beside him. Ant stood and walked three steps away. He looked back at it lying there, vibrant and green, the veins still perfect after all this time. Then he turned and kept walking, his back bare and light. He did not let himself hope. He had done this before. Tomorrow he would wake up, and it would be there again. But today, just for now, he could feel nothing.

Ant woke to the familiar weight pressing into his back. He did not need to look. The leaf had returned, just as it always did. He rose and began walking, following the worn path out of the park and into the hills beyond. The cabin appeared at midday, tucked between two slopes. Logs stacked on logs, weathered and dark. Near the door stood a massive stump, its roots twisted and exposed, reaching down into earth that had collapsed around them. The roots looked like grasping fingers, brown and gnarled. An old creature sat on the cabin steps, hunched and watching. When Ant approached, the creature stood. "I know why it comes back," they said. Their voice was dry, like leaves scraping stone. "I know what you carry." Ant stopped. He had heard promises before, from those who claimed they understood. But this creature reached inside the cabin and pulled out a thick book. They opened it and turned pages until they found what they wanted. There, pressed flat between the pages, was a leaf identical to his own. Same shape. Same green. The creature tapped the page. "Yours is here too," they said. "Every leaf that cannot be shed is in this book. I can tell you why." Ant looked at the book, then at the creature's face. Their eyes were tired, sunken. "What does it cost?" he asked. The creature closed the book. "You must carry mine as well," they said. "That is how the knowledge passes. I tell you, and you take my burden with yours." Ant turned and walked away. The creature called after him, voice rising, but he did not stop. He had wanted to know for so long that the wanting had become part of the weight itself. But he understood now that some answers were just another kind of burden. He would rather carry the leaf alone than carry two, even if it meant never knowing why. The path back down the hill felt longer than the climb up, but his back felt no heavier than before.