Cows - Cows
When Paul and Ken left the marine exhibit, the air felt lighter.
The sound of the whale's song still lingered within Paul's feathers. It was more than a sound - an echo that made the world seem too still afterwards.
Paul walked beside Ken, eyes unfocused, as if half-submerged in memory. His gaze drifted somewhere distant, calm but heavy.
"You alright?" Ken asked.
Paul nodded.
"The sound of our oceans is similar. But I never imagined yours could have such… resonance."
He smiled faintly.
"I think I'd like to see something simple. Something grounding."
Ken grinned.
"I know just the thing."
The next barn was warm. To Paul, it almost felt like home.
The sharp salt and brine of the sea had given way to hay, dust, and a faint sweet scent. It stirred something deep inside him - nostalgia.
A low hum filled the barn.
Paul stopped at the entrance. His feathers stood on end as his eyes widened. He inhaled deeply.
"This smell," he murmured. "Hay, oil, milk… morning."
"You sound like you already know what's inside," Ken said.
"Cows," Paul replied. "Of course I do."
They approached the pen.
Several shaggy brown cows stood under soft yellow light, calmly chewing their cud.
Paul studied them closely, then gave a short, incredulous laugh.
"They're here too."
"Wait, 'too'?" Ken asked.
"You heard me," Paul said. "The eyes, the nose, the chewing, that look of absolute contentment - as if nothing in the world could matter - are identical."
He gripped the railing.
"In our world, we call them cows as well. One of the few large mammals left."
"So your world still has large mammals?" Ken asked, intrigued.
"Barely," Paul said. "Most are small, like mice or bats. The big ones are usually reptiles or birds. But occasionally, a creature with fur and hooves figures out how to survive between the scaled and the clawed. The cow is the perfect example. Instead of fighting or fleeing, it chose to endure. And in doing so, it grew."
A soft smile crossed his face.
"Maybe patience is its own form of evolution."
"So your cows are mammals too? Do they give milk?" Ken asked.
"Exactly," Paul said.
"The taste and smell are the same. You could tell blindfolded. Sweet, a bit musky, slightly salty with a bitter edge. Used for everything - bread, soup, tea, even medicine. They say the first cows were domesticated not for food, but for healing."
He chuckled.
"I never understood why this world's food smelled so familiar until now."
One of the cows stepped closer to him.
Paul extended a wing, just as he had with the horse.
The cow pressed its damp nose to his talons and exhaled softly. Warm, humid air brushed through his feathers.
"Even the feeling's the same. You can hear the heartbeat if you listen."
Leaning on the pen, Ken asked,
"So your world's cows were domesticated like ours?"
Paul nodded.
"For everything they could give. Milk, hide, oil, meat, and even glue from their bones. But we never forgot who was granting the favour. The cows allowed us to live beside them, not the other way around. Most people don't realise how smart they are. When one dies, the rest go silent, just standing there. It's a kind of mourning."
"Our cows do that too," Ken said. "We think it's a social behaviour."
Paul turned toward him.
"Maybe. I think it's compassion. Science or sentiment - two ways of seeing the same thing."
He ran a wing along the cow's neck, feeling its pulse.
"To survive through gentleness - that's what they taught us. Not every creature needs claws. Some are meant to keep their hooves on the ground."
Ken smiled.
"You learn a lot in one barn."
"Never underestimate a barn," Paul said. "Some philosophers took inspiration just from watching cows chew."
He glanced at a calf dozing against a haystack.
"When I was a chick, I raised one like that. Her name was Lyra. She limped from a bad leg, and everyone said she wouldn't survive the winter. But every cold morning, I'd pull her to the trough, make her drink. When spring came, she walked on her own. Then one day, she was gone. She'd left the barn, joined the herd on her own. My father said he was proud. I wasn't. I wanted her to stay with me."
He smiled faintly.
"Took me years to realise she had learned the one thing I tried to teach her - to live without fear."
Ken was quiet for a moment.
"You must've loved her."
Paul nodded.
"How could I not? Few creatures can make you feel peace just by looking at them."
The cow rested its head on his wing.
Heavy. Warm.
"Even now, they still calm me."
"You know," Ken said, "you sound like a poet whenever you see something familiar. Like you're greeting an old friend."
Paul looked at him.
"Not a poet," he said after clearing his throat. "Someone who's seen enough of the world to recognise its patterns. Everything moves to the same rhythm - fear, trust, balance. Once you see it, you see it everywhere."
"I suppose you've seen it here too," Ken said.
Paul chuckled.
"When I first met you, I thought you looked like one of our long cows. About your size. In my world, cows are the only mammals that big."
"Long cows?" Ken snorted, picturing an upright cow in a lab coat and glasses wandering through a lab.
"I thought it was just another pattern," Paul continued. "Didn't expect to find the same creature."
They both laughed.
"Anyway," Paul said, his feathers glowing faintly in the dusk, "maybe that's what your world is teaching me. Evolution isn't invention - it's memory. The same memory, refined again and again until it survives."
They stayed until sunset.
The herd grew quiet, breathing slowly as one.
Only the steady chewing and the hum of the ventilation fan filled the space.
Paul lowered his voice.
"Every world needs cows. Not predators or prey, but symbols of peace."
Ken nodded.
"Cows as symbols of peace… that fits."
"No one understands peace like someone who's milked a cow before dawn," Paul said. "The sound of milk hitting a bucket - that's the sound of peace."
When it was time to leave, Paul paused at the doorway and looked back one last time.
The herd was asleep. Their breath fogged in the cold night air. A calf nestled close to its mother.
"What are you thinking?" Ken asked.
Paul answered softly.
"Maybe the universe really loves them. To create them twice."
He hesitated, then added,
"Creation might just be repetition - until it works."
Ken smiled.
"And the cow was what finally worked?"
Paul smiled back.
"Yes. Quiet things with the courage to forgive the loud."
Researcher Ken Lee - Observation Log
Based on Paul Tree's reaction, cows seem to exist in his world in nearly identical form.
He displayed affection, nostalgia, and calm, viewing them not as mere animals but as dignified beings capable of empathy.
Like dominant reptiles and avian species in his world, some mammals appear to have evolved successfully despite their rarity.
Further study recommended.
