The lake doesn't move. Nova settles onto the granite, the rock still warm from the day's faded sun. She pulls her knees up, wraps her arms around them. The hood of her sweatshirt brushes her jaw. She doesn't look at Shogg. She just sits. Beside her, the vast form of the Shoggoth hovers, its edges fraying into the violet-grey air. It has no weight, no footprint, but the pebbles near its base tremble slightly, as though the earth itself is uncertain how to receive it. Minutes pass. The only sound is the faint hiss of wind through dry pines on the ridge above. Shogg's luminous green eyes fix on the water. Its rippling reflection does not match the stillness of the surface. In the lake, the Shoggoth appears smaller, softer, almost fragile—a shape that could be held. "It is strange," Shogg says, its voice a low harmonic that seems to come from everywhere and nowhere at once. "To see oneself without distortion." Nova doesn't answer. She learned weeks ago that Shogg isn't always speaking to her—sometimes it speaks to the space between thoughts. "On Farsight-9," Shogg continues, "there were no lakes. No still surfaces. Everything moved. Everything reflected motion. I did not know I had a shape until I saw it held in place." Nova reaches down, picks up a flat stone. She turns it over in her palm, then offers it toward Shogg's nearest tendril. The tendril hesitates. Then it wraps around the stone, not grasping—just holding. "What do you see?" Nova asks quietly. Shogg is silent for a long moment. The stone rests within its dark substance, perfectly still. "A small world," Shogg says. "That trusts me enough to stay." Nova almost smiles. She leans back, looks up at the first stars piercing the twilight. The Shoggoth's form dims slightly, syncing with the dying light. From somewhere across the lake, a single bird calls. The sound hangs in the air, unanswered. Shogg's tendril slowly lowers the stone into the water. Ripples spread. The reflection breaks, then reforms. "Thank you," Shogg says. Nova nods. She doesn't ask what for. The lake settles. The violet-grey deepens. And they sit together at the edge of something neither can name.