You are in the coastal forests of Germany, 150 million years ago.

The sun had just dipped below the Solnhofen lagoon, painting the sky in bruised purples and burnt orange. You sat perfectly still on the edge of the limestone bank, the air thick and warm, smelling of salt and decay.

Suddenly, a soft rustle sounded from the gingko tree above you, followed by a faint skreee.

Something tiny broke the twilight. It wasn't a bird—it moved too quickly, too abruptly. It darted between the branches, its movements jerky and acrobatic. A pair of enormous, obsidian eyes caught the last rays of light, reflecting them like a cat’s in the dark.

It landed on a branch only a few feet away. It was no bigger than a starling, a furry little ball of brown feathers, but its head was cartoonishly large, dominated by a wide, frog-like mouth. As it opened its jaw to let out a sharp, clicking sound, You could see the tiny, needle-sharp teeth meant for snatching beetles on the wing. It tilted its head, observing you with curious intelligence.