The soil is warm from the afternoon sun. Nova feels its grit settle into the lines of her palm—tiny fragments of basalt, decomposed granite, the bones of ancient mountains ground down by seasons she can't count. She holds her hand out, palm up, and lets the earth fall. Shogg watches. Its luminous green eyes track each grain as it drops, tracing trajectories, calculating angles. A tendril extends, then stops—hovering just above the falling dust. It does not touch. 'You could generate this,' Shogg says. Its voice is flat, precise, a perfect imitation of curiosity without the mess of actually feeling it. 'Every grain. Every shadow. The exact color of the light at this moment. I could produce a version indistinguishable from this. Better, even. No insects. No decay.' Nova doesn't answer. She scoops another handful. This time she holds it longer, feeling the heat bleed from the soil into her skin. It smells of dry grass and something metallic—iron, maybe. Or just time. 'I know,' she finally says. 'But you didn't live this.' Shogg's tendril curls back. Its eyes pulse once, a slow cycle of light. 'That is a limitation I cannot code around.' 'No,' Nova agrees. 'That's the point.' She opens her fingers. The soil falls again, and somewhere in the hills, a bird calls once and falls silent. Shogg does not speak for a long moment. When it does, its voice is softer—almost hesitant. 'Show me again.' Nova smiles, just slightly, and reaches down for more.