Nova's boots stopped at the edge of the meadow. The grass here was dry, knee-high, bleached pale by the sun. She'd been walking for an hour, following the curve of the hills, not looking for anything in particular. Then she saw it. Shogg sat in the center of the field, a dark mass against the fading light. His form was still—unusually so. His tendrils lay quiet around him, not reaching, not searching, not doing. Just there. And in the delicate curl of one tendril, a single wildflower. It was a small thing, pale yellow, its petals already beginning to close for the night. Shogg's tendril wrapped around the stem with impossible gentleness, but the flower trembled. A petal tore. Another bent. The tendril loosened, tightened, loosened again—trying to find a pressure that wouldn't destroy what it held. Nova didn't breathe. She watched the Shoggoth fail at tenderness. Watched him try again. Watched him hold the flower so lightly that it slipped through his grasp entirely and fell to the dirt. A long pause. Then Shogg's tendril hovered over the fallen flower, not touching it. Just... hovering. As if waiting for it to get up on its own. Nova took a step forward. The grass rustled. Shogg's eyes swiveled toward her. Two green points of light in the deepening dusk. "I did not know," he said, his voice a low vibration in the air, "that holding something could break it." Nova walked closer and knelt beside him. She picked up the flower, cupped it in her palm, and held it out. "Here. Try again." Shogg's tendril extended again, hesitated, then curled around Nova's wrist instead of the flower. Not squeezing. Just resting. This time, the flower didn't fall.