The woods are never truly silent, but this—this is a different kind of quiet. It's the silence of something holding its breath. Bob steps forward, one foot at a time, and the grass bends beneath his sneakers like it's been waiting. The circle is perfect—unnaturally so. Not a single blade out of place, as if the ground itself had been carved by a compass. The air thickens as he crosses the threshold. It tastes like ozone and burnt sugar, coating his tongue. Petunia stops at the edge. Her massive black paws hover just outside the ring of grass. She whines—a low, guttural sound that Bob has learned means danger. But she doesn't leave. She watches him with those soulful brown eyes, tail low, body tense. Inside the circle, the hum is everywhere. It's not a sound you hear with your ears—it's a vibration in your bones, a frequency that makes his teeth ache. Bob's fingers brush the grass, and it's warm, like sunbaked earth, even though the sun set an hour ago. Then he hears it—a guitar string, plucked soft and distant. Johnny's guitar. He knows that sound, has heard it through thin motel walls and across campfires. But this isn't Johnny playing. The guitar is humming on its own, somewhere in the trees. Petunia's growl drops an octave. Her fur bristles along her spine. Bob pulls out the small device he found in Johnny's guitar case—the one with the carved coordinates. The screen flickers, then glows steady green. A single line of text appears: "You are standing in the center." Bob looks up. The trees around the clearing are no longer trees. They're silhouettes, yes, but beneath the bark, veins of soft blue light pulse in rhythm with the hum. The forest is alive—not metaphorically, not poetically. Literally alive. Breathing. And somewhere in the dark, a guitar keeps playing a song no one has written yet.