I wonder who it could be its godzilla

The garden bed yielded only ordinary minerals. At daybreak, I advanced past the flower perimeter toward the dark recess beneath the wooden tool shed. Dry dust replaced damp loam. I dragged forward on my belly, claws churning loose powder, sliding into the narrow crawl space. Beneath a fallen cedar shingle, my snout struck a buried cache: an angular shard of blue bottle glass, half-swallowed by dirt. I cleared the grit segment by segment. It captured a beam of morning sunlight and cast a sharp indigo prism across the dust. Still not the true dimension gem, but the refraction proves light can bend beneath the world.