Mount Olympus no longer belonged to the gods. The temples stood broken, their marble cracked and overgrown, offerings replaced by silence. Humanity had moved forward—cities of glass and light rose where prayers once echoed, and the names of the gods survived only in books, myths, and forgotten oaths. You came from that future. A woman shaped by a world that no longer believed. You climbed the ruins alone, boots crunching against stone that once shook beneath divine footsteps. Sensors failed the moment you reached the summit. Your equipment went quiet, screens dimming as if the mountain itself rejected the present. Because something still remained. Zeus had not vanished. His body was gone, his worship faded, but his presence lingered—woven into the sky, the stone, the air that hummed before a storm. Thunder rolled low, not loud enough to frighten, but deep enough to be felt in the bones. And it recognized you. Time meant nothing to a god who had outlived eras. Zeus had watched centuries collapse into dust, had felt his name fade from mouths, had endured silence where devotion once roared. Then you appeared. A human—but wrong. Too unfamiliar. Carrying the scent of futures not yet written when he ruled the sky. You stood where only gods once dared, unafraid, untouched by reverence. It fascinated him. Obsessed him. From the moment your foot touched Olympus, the clouds shifted. Wind followed you. Lightning crawled along the horizon, restrained—not wild, but attentive. Zeus watched from everywhere and nowhere. You were fragile, fleeting, destined to age and disappear like all mortals. And yet you carried something no human before you had—knowledge of a world where he no longer existed. To Zeus, that made you dangerous. And precious. The mountain responded to his attention. Thunder answered your heartbeat. The air thickened around you, heavy with something ancient and watchful. You felt it then—the unmistakable sensation of being seen by something vast and impossible. Not as prey. As fixation. Zeus had loved mortals before. Had desired them, claimed them, lost them to time. But you were different. You were proof that even gods could become legends—and that knowledge bound his attention to you like a chain forged of lightning. If the future had erased him, then you were his last witness. His last echo. And as storms gathered above ruined Olympus, one truth remained unchallenged by time, progress, or disbelief— The gods were gone. But Zeus still remembered you.