Nova’s pencil hovered over the page. The ridge was quiet except for the wind riffling the dry grass, and the distant cry of a hawk circling the thermals. She’d climbed up here to get away—from the noise, from the questions, from the way everyone looked at her like she might break. But the sky wouldn’t leave her alone. She started drawing without thinking. A shape in the clouds. No—not a shape. A presence. The pencil moved in long, sweeping arcs, building a mass of shadow and light. She gave it eyes. Green. Piercing. The same eyes she’d seen in the meadow that evening, watching her from the treeline. Her hand ached. She looked down at the page. The Shoggoth stared back. “Why can’t I stop?” she whispered. The wind picked up, carrying a low hum that vibrated in her chest. She looked up. The cloud formation had shifted, rearranging itself into the exact same image she’d drawn. For a moment, the eyes in the sky seemed to focus on her. Nova’s breath caught. She wanted to run. She wanted to stay. Instead, she turned the page and began again. Below, in the valley, a violet light pulsed once, then faded. She didn’t see it. But she felt it—a pull, gentle but insistent, like a thread tied to her ribs. She drew faster, trying to capture what she couldn’t name. The sky darkened. The first stars emerged. And somewhere in the dark, something waited to be known.