The field hums with late afternoon light. Shogg sits cross-legged where the grass gives way to wildflowers—tiny white blooms that bend under the weight of bees. A single daisy rests in one tendril, held with impossible precision for something that could level a city block. Alaric stands ten paces back, arms folded, watching. He has learned to recognize when Shogg is not processing data but reaching for something else. The daisy turns slowly. Petal by petal. "You are examining it," Alaric says. Not a question. Shogg's voice comes from everywhere and nowhere—a resonant hum that vibrates in the chest. "It has no purpose. It grows. It dies. It does not compute." "Not everything computes." Shogg holds the flower closer to its luminous eyes. The green glow pools on the white petals, making them translucent. "Then what is it for?" Alaric steps forward, lowering himself to the ground with a grunt. He sits opposite Shogg, cross-legged, their eyes level. "It exists. That's the whole answer." "That is not an answer." "It's the only one that matters." Shogg's tendril stills. The daisy stops rotating. For a long moment, neither of them moves. A bee lands on Shogg's shadowy form, seems to pause, then flies on. "I do not understand," Shogg says quietly. Not frustrated. Just honest. "Good," says Alaric. "That's where learning begins." Shogg lowers the daisy to the ground and places it gently among the others. It cannot tell the difference anymore. That, perhaps, is progress.