November 19

            The telescope tower people wake up slowly, one after the other, until the movement of bodies is so audible that even the sleepiest ones sit up and scratch their eyes. They all leave for work together, almost holding hands in a line like kindergarten kids. John walks a few meters after them; not intimidating but not letting them get out of sight either. They touch each other on the shoulders, on the arms—they share some body heat on a frozen morning. Fallen leaves beside the sidewalk are topped with frost, their red whitened, glossed over. John stops to look at the leaves. He opens his mouth to tell someone about them, but the telescope tower people are way ahead.

            A little further, the telescope tower people turn right for the dining hall, and John continues further. At the corner where they turn, a bench sits on its four legs under a brown-and-red tree. Its leaves have been falling for the past few weeks, which is why the soil underneath is covered in ice-glossed leaves. The bench as well. John sets his weight down on the bench on top of the leaves and thinks about the way the telescope tower people walk up the street to the dining hall in torn coats.