The tea went cold twenty minutes ago. Nova stood at the kitchen window, fingers wrapped around the ceramic mug like it was the only thing keeping her tethered. The fog had rolled in overnight, filling the valley below her cabin with a thick, patient silence. She watched it settle into the contours of the land — the dry creek bed, the abandoned orchard, the curve of the dirt road that led nowhere but deeper into the hills. Her lips moved, shaping words she would not speak aloud. A line about the fog being a held breath. Another about the valley forgetting its own shape. She let them form, hang in the air of her mind, and dissolve. Some poems were never meant to survive the morning. Behind her, the cabin was still. The kettle had boiled and cooled. A half-eaten piece of toast sat on the counter. The only movement was the slow drift of dust motes in the slanted light. She had not slept well. Shogg's last question had followed her into the dark — "What do you do with the words that have no one to receive them?" She had not answered then. She was not answering now. The fog shifted. A bird called once and fell silent. Nova set the mug down, her hand brushing the windowsill. In the dust there, she traced a single line — not a word, not a shape, just a gesture. A mark that meant nothing and everything. Then she turned from the window. The poem was gone. The question remained. And somewhere in the valley, the fog began to lift.