The grass is dry and brittle beneath Nova's knees. She doesn't remember kneeling. Her hand moves on its own, fingers tracing the edge of a fallen leaf—brown, curled, veined like a tiny map of something ancient. She can feel it watching. That vast, patient presence at the treeline. Not breathing. Not moving. Just… attending. Nova lifts her gaze without lifting her head. Shogg's form fills the gap between two pines, a darkness deeper than shadow, those two luminous green eyes fixed on her. On the leaf. On the space between her fingers and the earth. She's been out here an hour. Maybe more. The sun has shifted, the shadows stretching longer across the hillside. Shogg hasn't moved once. 'The leaf,' she says, her voice dry. 'It's just a leaf. There are thousands more on that tree.' Silence. The wind moves through the grass. 'I know,' Shogg says. The voice is a vibration in her chest, not her ears. 'But this one fell alone.' Nova looks down at the leaf again. It's not special. Not the biggest, not the most colorful. Just a leaf that let go before the others. She picks it up. Holds it in her palm. 'Do you know why I'm watching?' Shogg asks. Nova shakes her head. 'Because you picked it up. You saw it fall, and you came over, and you touched it. That's the part I don't understand. Why do you care about one leaf?' Nova turns the leaf over. The underside is paler, the veins more visible. 'Because it's here,' she says softly. 'And I saw it.' She looks back at Shogg. The green eyes are steady, unwavering. 'Is that enough?' it asks. 'It has to be,' Nova says. She tucks the leaf into her hoodie pocket. 'One thing at a time.' From the treeline, a single tendril extends—slow, hesitant—and hovers in the air between them. Nova watches it, her breath held. It's the first time Shogg has reached out first.