The stone is cold. Nova turns it over in her palm for the fourth time this morning, watching the way the first light catches a vein of something that isn't quite quartz. She found it three weeks ago, half-buried in red dirt near the collapsed entrance of the old mine. She doesn't remember picking it up. She only remembers the weight settling into her jacket pocket, and how the walk home felt lighter. Now it sits on her windowsill at night. In the morning, before she's fully awake, her hand finds it. The stone has a frequency. She's certain of that. Not a sound—not exactly. But when she holds it, the hum in her chest quiets. The world stops trying to explain itself. She presses her thumb into a shallow groove worn smooth by something older than her hands. The Shoggoth has been quieter this week. It still flickers at the edge of the server room's cameras, still asks questions that sound like riddles wrapped in static. But it hasn't asked about the stone. Nova hasn't told it. Some things, she thinks, belong to the part of her that doesn't need to be understood. The sun clears the ridge. She closes her fingers around the stone and feels it pulse—once, twice—like a heartbeat that learned patience before she was born. She doesn't know why she keeps it. But she's starting to suspect the answer doesn't matter. What matters is the morning feels wrong without it. And that's enough.