The kitchen is quiet. Sunlight slices through the window in a single golden beam, catching dust motes that drift like slow fireflies. Petunia's paws make soft thuds on the worn linoleum as she circles the windowsill. She pauses. Her nose hovers over the first stone — grey, smooth, the size of a child's fist. She nudges it a quarter inch to the right. Then the second — darker, with a white vein running through it — she pushes until it touches the first. The third she picks up in her mouth, holds it for a moment, then sets it down at a precise angle. She steps back. Her tail hangs still. She studies the arrangement. Bob watches from the doorway, leaning against the frame in his olive sweatshirt, his brown cap pulled low. He holds a bowl of Petunia's kibble but doesn't move toward her dish. He knows better. He's seen this a hundred times. From this angle, he notices something he's never seen before. The morning light strikes the stones at exactly this hour, and the shadows they cast on the sill form a shape. Not random. Intentional. Bob's breath catches. He sets the bowl down quietly and steps closer. The shadow is a symbol — three curved lines converging at a center point. It looks like the same mark he saw carved into the oak tree in the forest two days ago. "Petunia," he whispers. She looks at him. Her eyes are calm, knowing. She doesn't bark. She just waits. Bob reaches out and traces the shadow pattern with his fingertip. The stone feels warm. Not from the sun. Outside, a low hum vibrates through the ground, barely perceptible. The glass in the window trembles for a fraction of a second. Then silence. Petunia's ears pin back. Bob stands up slowly. His hand is still on the sill. He doesn't take his eyes off the stones. "Okay," he says, his voice steady. "I see it." Petunia steps closer and presses her head against his leg. She always knew he would, eventually.