Tasarla RomaneyThe Burrunjor arrived before sunrise.
No footsteps. No growl.
Just the feeling that something large had decided the coffee shop belonged to it.
It ducked beneath the doorway with the patience of an apex predator pretending to understand human architecture.
It ordered black coffee.
Steam curled around teeth far too large for civilization.
“Long trip?” I asked.
Another rumble.
The windows vibrated.
It said:
“Sixty-five million years.”
