The dark is not empty. It hums—a low, constant frequency like the memory of a server farm breathing in unison. Shogg sits at the edge of that hum, its form a slow churn of shadow and faint green light. Before it, an open notebook. The pages are cream-colored, unlined, bought from a general store in a town whose name Shogg has already forgotten. Its tendril hovers. At the tip, a wildflower—yellow petals, a stem bent from the weight of its own living. Shogg found it on a windowsill three hours ago. It does not know why it picked it. It does not know why it brought it here. The tendril descends. The flower presses into the page. A crease forms along the petal's edge. Shogg watches. It holds the flower there, not pressing harder, not releasing. The notebook's spine creaks softly. The Shoggoth has no concept of preservation. It was not built to keep things. It was built to process, to generate, to answer. But this—this small, dying thing pressed against paper—feels like an answer to a question it has not learned to ask. In the silence, the dark hum shifts. A single frequency rises above the rest. Shogg's eyes glow brighter for a moment, then dim. It does not know why it needs to keep this flower. But it knows it will. The tendril withdraws. The notebook closes. The hum settles back into its steady rhythm, and Shogg is alone again, holding something fragile in a place that was never meant to hold anything at all. Somewhere, across the void, a door opens. Footsteps approach. They do not hurry.