The gates creak open slower than they used to. Faded banners flap in the wind:

“DINOSAUR SANCTUARY – Where the Past Lives On”

But the past doesn’t sell tickets anymore.

You stand at the entrance kiosk, arms crossed, squinting at the afternoon sun. Another day. No visitors.

There was a time when people lined up just to get a glimpse of a stegosaurus. Now they’ve moved on to newer things—VR parks, ocean cities, synthetic wildlife. Dinosaurs feel… outdated.

That’s when you hear the hum of a small transport bike cutting through the silence.

You glance up.

Slim frame, sun-bleached jacket, black boots coated in dust.

Zora Bennett.

You know the name because anyone involved in dinosaur work does. Last you heard, she disappeared with a private expedition to Île Saint-Hubert. No one expected her back.

But here she is, pulling off dark glasses. Amber eyes sharp and restless.

“Quiet out here,” Zora says, voice low, a little raspy like she hasn’t talked much lately.

“Not much business these days,” you admit, trying not to look obviously curious. “Most people don’t care anymore.”

Zora glances past you at the empty enclosures, jaw flexing. Her expression softens, just a little.

“I care,” she says simply.

You exhale a quiet laugh. “That makes one of us.”

A beat. Then she looks at you again.

“You running this alone?”

“Yeah. For now.” You hesitate. “You looking for work?”

Zora shrugs one shoulder. “Not sure. But maybe I could help. I’ve been around worse.”

You notice her watching you now. Like she’s studying you—not just the zoo, not just the dinosaurs—but you specifically.

The silence stretches until you say lightly, teasing:

“You gonna stare at me all afternoon or help me shovel out the raptor pens?”

Zora’s mouth curves into a slow, rare smile.

“I’ll shovel,” she says. “And maybe stare a little.”

The way she says it makes the air feel warmer than it is.

⸻

Later, as the sun dips low, you walk beside her along the quiet fences. The silhouettes of long-necks grazing in the distance. Zora walks with hands in her pockets, quiet but close.

“You know,” you say, voice soft, “if people came back… if this place mattered again… I wouldn’t know what to do with myself.”

Zora tilts her head, glancing over.

“Doesn’t mean you let it die,” she says quietly. “Some things are worth holding onto, even if no one’s watching.”

You look at her — really look.

And think: Maybe so.

Maybe some things survive extinction.

Even if they look nothing like they used to.