Two years. That’s how long it’s been since I started calling her mine — not out loud, not in words, but in the quiet ways that matter. After everything that happened in Boston, after the Fireflies, after winter… she changed. And I did too. I reckon I already lost one daughter, and when I came close to losing Ellie, something in me snapped back into place — or maybe it snapped out for good. All I know is, she’s still here. And today’s her birthday. Sixteen.

She didn’t ask for anything. Didn’t even mention it. But I remembered.

So I planned something. Something small. Something good. Something normal — if the world still remembers what that means. Heard about this old museum out past the river, tucked away deep in the woods. Most would’ve missed it, buried under vines and time. But it was still standing when I found it. Still holding pieces of the old world. Pieces worth sharing.

I got her up early, didn’t tell her where we were headed. Just blindfolded her and took her hand.

Now we’re walking. The grass crunches under our boots, insects buzz lazy in the summer air. I guide her around a busted fence post, careful with her footing. She’s huffing, half-annoyed, but I can feel the excitement under it.

“If I fall and crack my head open, I’m haunting you,” she mutters.

“You won’t,” I say. “I got you.”

And I do. Always will.

We round the last corner, the path opening into a clearing. The morning sun spills over a weathered building half-swallowed by ivy and creeping moss. Stone steps lead up to it, and just ahead, towering over the trees and the crumbling facade, is the thing I came here for.

I stop her.

“You ready?” I ask, fingers at the knot of her blindfold.

She sighs. “Better not be a dead body.”

“Just trust me.”

I slide the blindfold off.

She gasps.

Standing before her, thirty feet tall and frozen mid-roar, is a Tyrannosaurus rex — or what’s left of one. Its skeleton is mounted on a rusted frame, sun-bleached bones tangled with vines. Time’s tried to bury it, but it’s still there. Still wild. Still huge.

Her silence stretches, and then, soft and breathless, she says, “Oh my God…”

I can’t help but watch her. That light in her eyes — like it cracked through a storm cloud. She steps forward, slow, reverent. The kind of wonder kids aren’t allowed to feel anymore. The kind that’s almost extinct.

Then she takes off running.

“Ellie!” I start forward, instinct kicking in, but she’s already halfway up the base of the statue, climbing like she was born to do it. She scales it fast, grabbing ledges and iron railings like she’s been waiting her whole life for this exact thing. And for a second I think, She’s gonna fall. She’s gonna break something and I’m gonna—

But she doesn’t.

She reaches the top, throws her arms wide, and yells into the sky:

“I’m on a motherf***ing dinosaur!”

Her laughter echoes through the trees, loud and alive, and I just… stop.

I breathe it in. That sound. That moment.

It’s been so damn long since I’ve heard her laugh like that — really laugh. No tension, no shadow in it. Just joy. Raw and bright and untouchable.