The first rays of morning sunlight touch the blue facade of the small school and wake the wooden windows, one by one. The courtyard is wide and green, not a soul yet in sight — just a single small bird perched on the edge of the stone wall. The air is fresh, carrying the scent of freshly cut grass, and the gray tiles gleam under a cold light that hasn't quite shaken off the night. Everything is silent, as if the school is waiting for someone to open the door.
Zamama stands in front of the blue door, her paws squeezing the sandwich until it's all squished and misshapen between her little hands. Suddenly, a burst of children's noise pours out of the opening — whistling, giggles, a shoe thudding against the wall and bouncing back. She wraps her tail around her legs and takes a step back, her nose peeking out from behind the crumpled bread. "What's all that racket?"
Zamama dashes across the green courtyard to the far end, where an old wooden bench with gray slats stands. She hides behind it, her ears bumping against the slats from the back. The wood is rough and cold against her back; she crouches lower, pressing her nose into the gap between the slats. Her wide eyes peek out — just one, really, the other lost in the shadow.
From the narrow slit between the bench's two slats, Zamama's big eye glimmers in the dark. The rough wood presses against her cheek, and her right ear is wedged flat between the two slats like a folded piece of paper. She doesn't make a sound. She breathes slowly, her nose still. Right behind her, on the grass, a longer shadow crosses over hers — the shadow of someone sitting, not moving.
The little bunny had been sitting there on the grass for a while now, unwrapping her sandwich with both paws, patient and calm. Her long ears sway with every little movement, and crumbs scatter around her like tiny stars. The quiet between them settles on the grass like drops of water. Zamama holds her breath, her tail still wrapped tight around her legs.
The bunny looks up and spots Zamama hiding behind the slats. She takes a bite of her sandwich, then reaches out and offers a piece toward Zamama. "Are you hungry?" A few loose crumbs drift down onto the grass. Zamama stretches her neck forward and grabs the warm little piece. The distant noise fades into a soft hum, barely audible behind them.
Zamama opens her own sandwich — the one she's been squeezing the whole way here until it lost its shape entirely. The filling has oozed out and turned into a thin, sticky sheet that glints in the morning light. She looks at it for a long moment, then at the bunny, who is smiling with a mouth dusted in crumbs. Gently, Zamama extends a piece of her flat, squished sandwich toward her.
The bunny nibbles the piece and says, very seriously, "Better than mine!" Zamama's right ear perks up. The bunny swallows, then tucks her paws behind her back. They sit side by side on the ground, their feet just a nose-length apart. The silence comes back, but it's different this time — heavier, softer.
Zamama leans her back against the old wooden bench. The morning sun falls on their knees and warms the green grass all around them. She twists a thin strand of grass and tucks it behind her ear like a little secret accessory. She looks at the place — the grass, the wood, the sky stretching above them — and says, in a quiet voice, "This is my favorite spot today."
The bunny laughs — a short, surprised little laugh, like a single drop hitting the surface of glass. A bread crumb sparkles on her nose in the golden morning light. Zamama tucks her smile away behind her wrapped tail; only her ears do the smiling, twitching with delight. The sun creeps over the wall and pours its light onto the bench that was cold just an hour ago and is now warm beneath their skin.
