The old Okanogan Theater hasn't shown a film in eleven years. The seats are faded red velvet, cracked and moth-eaten. The popcorn machine is a rusted husk in the corner. But tonight, the stage is alive. Johnny Maverick sits in the front row, elbows on his knees, hands clasped. He hasn't moved in twenty minutes. His guitar case lies open beside him, empty. The stage floor is covered in symbols. They glow a pale green, not bright but steady, like bioluminescence in deep water. They pulse. Not randomly — in rhythm. A slow, deliberate beat that doesn't match the clock on the wall. Petunia stands at Johnny's side. Her tail is motionless. Her ears are forward, tracking something beyond human hearing. A low rumble starts in her chest, not a growl — something deeper. A frequency. Bob steps through the broken side door. The hinges whine. Johnny doesn't turn around. "You felt it too," Johnny says. His voice is flat. Empty. Bob walks closer. Petunia shifts, just enough to let him pass, but her eyes never leave the stage. The symbols are writing. Not English. Not anything Bob has seen on any screen. "What is it?" Bob whispers. Johnny finally looks at him. In the green glow, his face looks older. Tired. "When I was sixteen, I used to break into this place at night. Sit right here. Dream about playing arenas." He laughs, no humor in it. "I got my arena. Fifteen thousand people. And the whole time, this was waiting for me back home." A symbol on the stage flickers. Petunia whines — high, tense. The hum shifts, just barely. Something is responding. "It started three nights ago," Johnny says. "I came here to think. Found the first symbol scratched into the floorboards. By last night, they covered the whole stage." Bob kneels beside Petunia. Her fur is warm, vibrating slightly. "She hears it," Bob says. "She's been hearing it for weeks." Johnny nods slowly. "I think it's been here longer than any of us. We just finally started listening." A symbol in the center of the stage flares bright. The hum becomes a tone. A single B-flat, clear and sharp, cuts through the dark. Petunia's collar hums in response. The dog takes one step forward. Bob reaches for her, but Johnny catches his wrist. "Let her go," he says. Petunia walks to the edge of the stage. The glow reaches her paws. She doesn't flinch. She sits. And waits.