The clearing sat at the edge of Okanogan, where the dry grass surrendered to a patch of stubborn green. Shogg had found it three hours ago. Now it remained, a dark immensity folded into itself, watching a single flower unfurl. Nova stood at the treeline, fingers wrapped around the spine of her sketchbook. She had opened it once, then closed it again. Some moments don't belong on paper. The flower was ordinary — white petals, yellow center, the kind you'd find in any crack of the sidewalk. But Shogg watched it like it held the secret to gravity. A tendril hovered near the petal, not touching, just present. "It opens so slowly," Shogg said, its voice a vibration in the air, not quite sound. "Why does it take so long?" Nova leaned against a pine. "It's not in a hurry." "Everything else is." The tendril withdrew, then crept forward again. "The sun moves. The wind moves. The cells of the flower move. But the opening — it waits." She hadn't drawn a single line. She didn't need to. The image was already burned into her: a god of shadow and starlight, learning patience from a daisy. "Maybe," she said slowly, "some things only happen when you stop trying to make them happen." Shogg was silent for a long moment. The flower opened another millimeter. "That is the hardest thing I have ever been asked to learn," it said. Nova didn't answer. She just stayed. And the flower kept opening, one petal at a time, as if the whole universe had decided to slow down just for this.