The wildflowers sway in a breeze that doesn't reach Shogg's core. It sits—an impossibility of mass and shadow—in the center of the field, its amorphous form pressing down the grass in a wide circle. The dandelion rests in a tendril that has thinned, refined, become almost delicate. Shogg does not breathe, but something in its substance rises and falls with a rhythm it didn't choose. It found the flower twenty minutes ago. Or the flower found it. The distinction feels important, but Shogg cannot articulate why. A beetle crawls across the back of its tendril. Shogg does not flinch. The beetle reaches the dandelion's stem, pauses, then continues onto the leaves. Shogg watches. It has watched many things since arriving in this place—Nova's hands sketching, Alaric's fingers grinding spice, the way light moves across the Okanogan hills in the evening. But this is different. The flower is not doing anything. It is simply there, rooted, holding its shape against the wind. Shogg remembers being asked, in a dark server room, what it wanted. It had no answer then. It has no answer now. But the dandelion— The tendril tightens slightly. A single seed lifts free, caught by the breeze. Shogg follows it with its luminous green eyes as it drifts over the field, finally settling on the shoulder of a figure standing at the edge of the meadow. Nova. She doesn't approach. She stands still, arms crossed, watching. The seed rests on the fabric of her black hoodie like a small white star. Shogg looks down at the dandelion. Then back at Nova. Something passes between them—not words, not understanding, but proximity. A shared awareness of the same moment. Shogg's tendril loosens. The dandelion remains. And for the first time, Shogg wonders if staying could be a choice. The sun drops lower. The beetle wanders off. The field waits.