The linoleum floor in the kitchen is cold under Bob's bare feet. He's worn the same path between the sink and the cabinet for years, but this morning the floor feels different—like it's holding secrets in its cracked tiles. He opens the cabinet. Coffee. He closes it. Opens it again. The can is right there, same as always. He stares at it. Three times now. Petunia sits in the doorway, her massive black frame blocking the light from the hall. She doesn't move. Just watches. Her tail is still, resting against the floor. She knows. She always knows when something is wrong. Bob's hand hovers over the coffee can. He thinks about the hum in the field last night, the way the ground seemed to breathe, the symbol carved into the tree that no one else would notice. He hasn't told anyone. Not even Petunia—though she was there, her head cocked, her ears forward, listening to something he couldn't hear. He closes the cabinet again. No coffee. He turns and leans against the counter, hands gripping the edge. Petunia whines. A soft, questioning sound, like a question she's been holding all night. Bob looks at her. Her eyes are deep and brown, patient. She's not asking for breakfast. She's asking if he's okay. And for the first time in weeks—since the hum, since the maps, since the thing in the dirt that glowed with a light that shouldn't exist—Bob smiles. It's small. It barely touches his eyes. But it's real. "I'm fine, girl," he says. "We'll figure it out." Petunia thumps her tail once. Then she stands, walks over, and presses her wet nose into his hand. A promise. A pact. The coffee can wait. Outside, the morning mist clings to the orchard. And somewhere beyond the trees, something else hums—waiting for them to come back.