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In the vast, carpeted plains of Office Land, where the lights never quite feel like sunlight and the clocks never quite tell the truth, there lives a creature most workers have felt but few have ever seen.

It has a thick, majestic mane, but instead of roaring, it releases a slow, rolling breath that sounds like the world stretching.

They call it the Liawn.

Half lion, half yawn, and entirely… underused.

The Liawn has the proud mane of a jungle king, wild and heavy, but its eyes carry the soft glaze of someone who has been sitting far too long with nothing meaningful to do. Where a real lion would roar, the Liawn exhales long, drifting breaths that ripple through the air like a warm sigh.

Liaaaaawwwnnn…

When that sound slips down a hallway, something subtle begins to happen. Spines straighten less. Fingers hover over keyboards. Coffee cups pause halfway to lips. The office does not fall asleep, not exactly, but it loosens, like a body finally realizing no one is watching.

The Liawn does not hunt gazelles.
It hunts underwork.

It pads between cubicles, stepping over tangled cords and unread sticky notes. It curls beside printers that have not printed anything important in weeks. It drapes its tail across stacks of paperwork that have been waiting for a reason to exist. Wherever it rests, fake urgency melts away.

Humans try to stay busy.

“I just need to check one more case,” they whisper, scrolling through empty queues.

The Liawn tilts its head and releases another yawn. That yawn slides into their shoulders, their jaw, their breath. Suddenly the word “urgent” feels imaginary. Suddenly the idea of pretending feels heavier than resting.

The copier sighs.
The inbox goes still.
The printer omniously blinked.
A spreadsheet forgets what it was calculating.
Even the fluorescent lights seem to soften.

Long ago, before calendars ruled everything, the Liawn roamed open plains and slept beneath real trees. But when humans captured time and trapped it inside cubicles, the Liawn followed, quietly, to keep them from turning into furniture.

People feel it before they see it.
Eyelids droop.
Minds wander.
Purpose begins to wobble.

The Liawn does not stalk danger.
It stalks emptiness disguised as productivity.

It curls around swivel chairs. It lies down on forgotten memos. Wherever it rests, the performance collapses into something slower and truer.

Workers whisper, like nervous gazelles.

“I just need to push through.”

The Liawn exhales. That breath loosens every clenched thought. Suddenly, nothing needs pushing.

The Liawn knows what most offices forgot.

Rest is not laziness.
Rest is what happens when pretending stops.

It stays only as long as needed. If it lingered, people might start imagining lives with walks, dogs, lakes, and long quiet afternoons.

So when screens go dark and the office hum fades, the Liawn stretches, mane glowing in monitor light, and slips back into the vents.

It leaves behind something rare.

Permission.

Permission to breathe.
Permission to pause.
Permission to be human.

If your chest opens with a slow, wandering yawn in the middle of a dull workday, do not fight it.

That is not weakness.
That is the Liawn brushing past your soul.

You yawned.
The Liawn noticed.
You are already transforming.