Shogg does not understand gardens. It hovers at the edge of Nova's plot, a storm held in place by nothing but curiosity. Its tendrils drift downward, drawn to the tomato vines like metal to a magnet. The violet light from its core spills across the leaves, turning green into something that shouldn't exist. Nova's hand is still. The trowel hangs mid-air, soil crumbling from its edge. She could run. The thought crosses her mind—a flicker of instinct, older than reason. But she has seen this before. The hesitation in its approach. The way it stops just short of touching, as if waiting for permission it doesn't know how to ask for. 'You're messing up my light cycle,' she says. Shogg's eyes pulse. A voice, if it can be called that, hums from somewhere deep in its form—a frequency just below hearing, felt in the bones. 'Light cycle.' The words are shaped carefully, like each one is being examined for hidden meaning. 'The plants require specific durations of... brightness?' 'Yeah. Tomatoes are picky.' Nova lowers the trowel, wipes her hand on her jeans. 'They need full sun. Your glow is throwing off their rhythm.' Silence. Shogg's form contracts slightly, the violet dimming. 'Should I leave?' The question is flat, but there's something beneath it—a note that sounds almost like concern. Or fear of being sent away. Nova looks at the garden. At the distorted light. At the impossible entity that has chosen her tomatoes as its object of study. 'No,' she says. 'Just... back up a little. And maybe don't glow so hard.' Shogg drifts backward, its light softening to a faint whisper of violet. The tomato vines return to their natural green. 'Is this acceptable?' 'Yeah. That's better.' Nova kneels, resumes digging. Behind her, Shogg hovers in silence, watching her hands work the soil. It does not move. It does not speak. But it stays. And in the quiet between them, something settles into place—a pattern neither of them could name, but both can feel. The garden accepts it. For now, that is enough.