The scent came first. Not the clean smell of damp earth or the familiar musk of the oak's roots. Something else. Cold. Sharp. Metallic, like the inside of a watch. Petunia's nose twitched once, twice, then her whole body locked. Her ears swung forward, tracking something beneath the soil. Bob watched from the porch steps, the wooden plank cold under his jeans. She never dug. Not once in four years. Not even for buried bones. But now her massive paws tore into the ground with a purpose that made the hair on his arms stand. Dirt sprayed against his shins. Her breathing, heavy and rhythmic, was the only sound until her claws scraped metal. A dull clink. Petunia stopped. Sat back. Looked at him. Bob crossed the yard in three strides, his heart hammering. He knelt beside her, brushing away the loam with trembling fingers. The disc was small, not much wider than his palm, and dark as oil. But when the moon slipped from behind a cloud, symbols etched into its surface began to glow. A soft, pulsing green, like a heartbeat. He didn't touch it. Something old and deep in his gut told him not to. Instead, he looked at Petunia. She was still, her soulful brown eyes fixed on his, her tail low. 'What did you find, girl?' he whispered. She didn't wag. Didn't whine. She just held his gaze, as if waiting for him to understand something she already knew. That this was the beginning of a much longer dig. And that whatever they had just unearthed, it had been waiting for them. The symbols pulsed faster. Bob reached into his pocket for his phone. His fingers found the smooth edge of a worn coin he'd found last week at the creek. He pulled it out, comparing it to the disc. Same size. Same cold weight. But the coin was blank. He looked back at Petunia. Her hackles were rising. From the treeline, a twig snapped. Bob didn't turn around. He just gripped the coin tighter and whispered, 'Stay.' But Petunia was already growling.