The creek runs low this time of year. Nova Brown kneels at its edge, the gravel digging into her knees through the denim of her dark jeans. She cups her hands and dips them into the cold water, watching it fill the bowl of her palms. She doesn't bring it to her lips. She just holds it there, waiting for the ripples to settle, for the surface to become a mirror. Her breath steams faintly in the chill dawn air. Behind her, the hills roll tan and dry, scattered with sagebrush and the skeletal remains of wildflowers. The sky is a pale violet, the color of Ghost Violet—#AA99AA—a frequency that seems to hum at the edge of hearing, like the distant thrum of a server room buried somewhere in the mountain. Nova's mind drifts to Shogg. The way it had asked her yesterday, its voice a vibration in the air: "What's it called when something is born but doesn't know why?" She hadn't answered. She'd just watched it watch a dewdrop for an hour. Now, here, with the water still in her hands, she thinks she might understand. The water doesn't ask why it flows. It just moves, follows the path of least resistance, finds the low places. Maybe Shogg is the same—a thing that exists because it can, not because it chose to. But unlike water, it wants to know. It wants meaning. A ripple catches her eye. Not from her hands—something beneath. A flash of violet light, deep in the creek bed, then gone. Nova's breath catches. She sets the water down, leans closer. The stones at the bottom are ordinary, worn smooth by years of flow. But for a moment, she could swear one of them glowed. She reaches in, fingers brushing the cold pebbles. Nothing. But the sense remains—something is waking. Something in this creek, in the hills, in the lines of the land itself. And it's been waiting for someone to notice. Nova stands, water dripping from her fingertips. The sun crests the eastern ridge, pouring gold across the valley. She turns and walks back toward the trail, but her pace is different now. Purposeful. The poem she never finished is still in her notebook. Maybe today she'll find the last line.