Then he turned. He waded back into the harbor, each step sending a tidal wave toward the shore, toward the city he had not meant to harm. He sank beneath the waves without a sound.
No answer came from the thing wading ashore. the visitor godzilla
He did not attack.
A child on a rooftop—a little girl named Eri who had sneaked up to watch the storm—was the only one close enough to see. She did not run. She had no running left in her; her mother had died in the last quake, and the world had already ended once for her. So she sat cross-legged on the wet concrete, her red raincoat pooling around her, and she watched the monster stand still as a mountain. Then he turned
Where is the ocean?
Not this ocean—the one he remembered. The one before the continents drifted, before the sky turned this pale, thin blue. The one where his kind had swum between the stars, when Earth was young and molten and theirs. He had slept in the mantle for three hundred million years, dreaming of that sea. And now he had risen to find it gone, replaced by steel and glass and tiny screaming things that threw fireflies at his hide. No answer came from the thing wading ashore