The thing in Bob's hand is warm. Not hot—warm like it's alive, like something breathing under the skin of the world. It's small, no bigger than a river stone, but it pulses with a light that doesn't come from anywhere. Deep blue-green, the color of deep water at twilight. Petunia stands rigid at his side, her massive body a wall of muscle and fur. Her growl isn't loud. It's low, constant, a vibration Bob feels through the floorboards more than he hears. She won't take her eyes off it. "What is it, girl?" Bob whispers. The dog doesn't answer. She never does, not with words. But her ears pin flat, and she takes one step back. That's what gets him. Petunia doesn't back away from anything. Bob turns the object over. It's smooth, seamless—no seams at all, like it was grown instead of made. A single symbol is etched into the underside, worn and ancient, something that looks almost like a letter but not one he's ever seen. The hum changes pitch when his thumb brushes it. A flicker of heat. He drops it onto the kitchen table. It clatters, rolls, stops. The light doesn't fade. The hum doesn't stop. Bob looks at Petunia. She's still staring, still growling, but now her tail is tucked. And Bob knows—whatever that thing is, it's not just a rock. It's a message. A key. Or a warning. Outside, the wind picks up, rattling the windowpanes. The orchard goes dark under a passing cloud. And somewhere far off, a dog howls. Not Petunia. Something else. Something answering. Bob picks up the object again. It thrums against his palm. He doesn't know what it means yet. But he knows one thing for certain: it's already too late to put it back.