THE LAST DODO’S DREAM

Johan Kaushal, 8

Holywood

They call me dead. Extinct. A relic of a time when the world was wilder, less tamed by human hands. But I do not feel dead.

Not yet.

I am the last dodo, or so I believe. Once, my kind lived happily on this island, waddling through thick forests, feasting on fruit that fell in large amounts from the trees. We had no need for wings, no predators to fear—until humans came. They brought hunger and greed, farmed our forests, brought beasts with sharp teeth and quick paws. One by one, my kind vanished, until I was left to wander alone.

Yet, as I peck at the sandy ground, I find something strange. A coin, dull and worn, half-buried beneath the roots of a tree. I nudge it with my beak, tilting my head. People love these little metal circles. They trade them, hoard them, battle over them. But this one seems different. There is a design etched into its surface—not a king’s face, nor a ship, but a branch. We can only imagine its tree, strong and unbroken.

A gust of wind rustles the leaves above me, and suddenly, I am not alone. A voice, deep and knowing, fills the air.

“What do you see, little one?”

I do not know how to answer. I have never spoken before, not like people do. But I think of my kind, of the world before it changed, before greed and hunger swept it away.

“A tree,” I whisper, though no sound leaves my beak.

The voice hums in agreement and replies, “This is a promise, pressed into metal. A vow that the mistakes of the past need not be repeated. That forests will stand, that creatures like you will no longer vanish without remembrance.”

Hope stirs in my chest, fragile as an unhatched egg.

“But I am the last,” I say.

“Perhaps,” the voice replies, “but not forever.”

Images swirl before my eyes—great forests reborn, rivers running clear, creatures I have never seen growing healthily under the sun. I see people, too, not as destroyers, but as caretakers. Harnessing wind and sun for power. They plant trees instead of cutting them down, they use coins not for greed, but to restore, to protect, to build futures where no species is ever called ‘the last’ again.

And in the heart of this vision, I see it—a dodo, round and feathered like me, pecking at the forest floor with a flock at its side. Not a ghost, not a memory, but real.

The wind dies down. The coin lies still in the sand. But something in me has changed. Perhaps extinction is not an end, but a lesson. A turning point.

I lift my head to the sky, knowing that even if I am the last to walk this world, I may not be the last to return.