The metal is warm under Nova's palm. Not the warmth of sunlight held too long, but something deeper—a stored memory of broadcasts that once split the mountain silence. She feels it through her fingers, a faint pulse, like a second heartbeat beneath the rust. Shogg hovers beside her, its vast form catching the last orange light. One tendril extends, not to touch the tower but to hover a hair's breadth from its surface. The green glow of its eyes softens. "It's singing," Nova whispers. Shogg does not answer. But its tendril trembles, and for a moment the air between them thickens with something unspoken. "What did it used to say?" she asks. Shogg's voice comes from everywhere and nowhere, a resonance in her chest. "Names. Weather. Warnings. It told people where the fire was. It told them help was coming." "And now?" "Now it listens to the wind. It remembers the voices. It does not know if anyone is still listening back." Nova lets her hand fall. She turns to face the Shoggoth fully. The wind lifts her hair, and the tower groans behind them. "I'm listening," she says. Shogg's eyes pulse once, then dim. The tendril withdraws. For a long moment, there is only the sound of the mountain settling into dusk. Then, from somewhere deep in the tower's skeleton, a single tone rings out—clear, pure, a frequency that has waited years to be heard. Shogg goes still. Nova holds her breath. And the ridge begins to hum.