dragon

The tires crunch on gravel as you slam the car door behind you, heart hammering. The ground shivers underfoot—not a quake, but a slow, deliberate vibration, like the heartbeat of the world itself. You glance up. There, emerging from the morning mist, is a dragon—ancient and immense, scales glittering like molten gemstones, eyes burning with a light older than any forest or city. Its wings stretch across the sky, blotting out clouds, and each beat sends a gust that bends trees and shivers the air around you. “The earth speaks of legends beneath it,” the dragon intones, voice deep and resonant, vibrating through your chest. The words are not just heard—they are felt, as if the soil itself is speaking through it. You stumble back, mind scrambling for sense, but sense has no purchase here. The dragon lowers its head, smoke curling from its nostrils, eyes fixed on you with a curiosity that borders on judgment. Its claws dig into the ground, leaving scars on the earth that will last centuries. You realize, somewhere deep inside, that this is not a creature of rage or hunger—but of memory. It has witnessed the rise and fall of empires, the birth of rivers and mountains, the slow dance of stars across the sky. And now, here you are, a single human in its gaze, fragile yet present.