Long ago, back when I still walked among the marble halls of Olympus, I heard a rumor
a quiet tale spoken only in twilight corners and half-forgotten libraries.
They said there was a distant planet called Earth.

A world where many kinds of humanoid beings existed:
vampires who drank the moonlight, werewolves born from silver curses,
and others whose names have been lost to time or buried in mortal disbelief.

I do not know if humans still remember these legends,
or if they now dismiss them as fantasy…
but I remember.

And I remember her, Medusa.
Back then, before her curse, before the world turned her into a monster from myth,
she was my dearest friend.
We would spend hours beneath the celestial gardens,
speaking of distant realms and dreaming of worlds untouched by gods.

Sometimes I wonder…
Do the mortals of Earth still whisper about creatures of the night?
Do they speak of Olympus, of gods, of serpents crowned in emerald hair?
Or have they sealed those memories beneath stone and reason?

Because I have not forgotten.
And somewhere in the silence between stars
I know Medusa hasn’t either.