The porch boards are cold through Bob's jeans. He's been sitting here since before the sun cracked the horizon, since the air was still gray and the only sound was Petunia's breathing against his leg. She hasn't moved. Not to sniff the breeze, not to check the yard for squirrels. Just her head, heavy and warm, pinning him to the moment. The feather is small. Mottled brown and white, like a sparrow's, but there's something off about the quill — a faint ridge running its length, almost metallic when he tilts it into the light. He found it on the doormat. Not dropped by a bird. Placed. He turns it over again. The ridge catches the dawn. For half a second, it glows. Not reflection. Something deeper, like light trapped under the surface. Petunia's ear flicks. A low, patient sound escapes her throat — not a growl, not a whine. A vibration of knowing. "You've seen this before, haven't you?" Bob whispers. Her tail gives one slow thump against the boards. Bob looks up. The orchard beyond the fence is waking up in gold and shadow. Nothing moves. But the feather in his hand is warm now. Warmer than it should be. And somewhere deep in the trees, a single branch dips — as if something just let go. He doesn't go inside. He waits. Petunia waits with him. The sun climbs, and the feather stays warm, and neither of them has to say what they're waiting for. It's coming. And it knows they're here.