Jamal had sketched it on a whim, late at night in his tiny apartment, where the flicker of a fluorescent bulb hummed above his head. The frog was squat, with bulging eyes and a mischievous grin. Beneath it, Jamal wrote: “Trust the pond, they said.”

It was dumb. Silly. Exactly the kind of humor the internet loved.

The meme went viral by morning. Shared, reshared, and captioned into oblivion. It was everything from a critique of corrupt politicians to a rallying cry for lost causes. Protesters painted it on signs. Graffiti artists plastered it across city walls. #TrustThePond trended for weeks.

But with fame came scrutiny.

The government declared the meme a threat to national unity. "The frog undermines trust in leadership," the Minister of Communication announced on live television, the absurdity of his statement spawning another wave of memes. Overnight, Trust the Pond became a symbol of defiance.

Jamal watched it all unfold in disbelief. He had no grand vision, no intention to ignite a movement. Yet here he was, the reluctant creator of the revolution’s mascot.

When the knock came at his door, he knew what it meant. The officials wore suits, their faces grim as they led him to a nondescript car.

“What do you want from me?” Jamal asked, his voice shaking.

“You’ll make a statement,” one of them replied, monotone. “Denounce the meme. Explain it was a joke.”

Jamal hesitated, his pulse hammering. He thought of the protesters in the streets, chanting and laughing despite the looming crackdown. The frog had become bigger than him—an idea, a mirror reflecting the absurdity of their times.

“I can’t,” Jamal said finally.

They stared at him. “You don’t have a choice.”

But as the car sped through the city, past walls splashed with his grinning frog, Jamal realized the truth. He might lose his freedom, but the frog—his frog—was already free.

And freedom, he thought with a wry smile, was a dangerous thing to contain.