The server room hums with a low, constant vibration. Nova sits on the floor, back against the cooling rack, knees pulled to her chest. She isn't sure when she started crying. It just happened. A pressure that built behind her ribs and escaped through her eyes. Shogg hovers in the corner. Not watching, exactly—but present. Its tendrils pulse in a slow rhythm, syncing to the drip of tears on concrete. "You are losing water," it says. Not an accusation. A measurement. Nova laughs weakly. "That's one way to put it." "I have observed this for three days. Across seven subjects. Mostly at night. The release happens when the face contracts in specific patterns." She wipes her cheek with her sleeve. "It's called crying, Shogg." "Crying. I have a hypothesis." Nova looks up. The green eyes glow softly, waiting. "Tell me." "The tears cool the face. When emotions generate heat, the body compensates. Like a radiator." She stares at it. The silence stretches. Somewhere, a fan clicks on. "That's... not why," she says softly. "Then why?" Nova looks down at her hands. How do you explain grief to something that has never lost anything? Something that never had anything to lose? "Because something inside you breaks," she whispers. "And the tears are the only way the pieces can leave." Shogg's tendrils go still. The hum of the server room fills the space between them. "I do not understand," it says. "But I will continue to observe." Nova nods. It's not understanding. But it's trying. And somehow, that matters more. On the wall behind her, a single moth lands near a crack in the plaster. It doesn't move. Just rests there, wings folded, patient as a held breath.