The dinosaur extended a claw, pressing it firmly against the weathered rock surface. With slow, deliberate strokes, he carved deep grooves into the stone, forming crude but unmistakable symbols—a record of his existence. The sound of scraping echoed faintly in the still air as dust and pebbles cascaded down the outcrop. His markings were simple: the outline of his own claw, a jagged line representing the horizon, and a circle for the unrelenting sun. A testament. A warning. Or perhaps, a plea.

As he finished, he ran his claw-tips over the grooves, feeling the roughness beneath his scales. The wind picked up, swirling dust around him as if the land itself was responding. He tilted his head, listening to the whispers of the air, then turned his gaze back to the distant glimmer on the horizon. The light had grown slightly brighter, as if whatever it was had moved closer—or perhaps it was just the fading sun playing tricks on his weary eyes.

With a final glance at his carving, he pushed off from the rock and descended the outcrop, his tail dragging lightly across the stone to leave one last mark. The metallic scent was stronger now, carried on the evening breeze. It clung to his nostrils, unfamiliar yet strangely compelling. The last of his kind, leaving the last of his marks, stepping toward the last of his mysteries.