The forest had gone silent. Even the crickets had stopped. Bob held the device in both hands, feeling the warmth pulse through his fingers. It was smooth, like river stone worn down by years of water, but the surface shimmered with a pattern that seemed to shift when he looked at it directly. A circle, bisected by a jagged line. Three dots arranged in a triangle around it. Johnny Maverick took a step closer, his flashlight beam joining Bob's. The rock star's face, usually so full of swagger and easy smiles, had gone tight. His jaw worked like he was chewing on something bitter. 'Where did you find this?' Johnny's voice was low, stripped of its usual theatrical edge. 'By the old oak,' Bob said. 'The one with the split trunk. Petunia wouldn't stop scratching at the base.' He glanced down at Petunia. The Newfoundland stood rigid, her massive head low, eyes fixed on the device. A low whine rumbled in her chest. Johnny pulled out his phone, swiped to a photo. A poster, stapled to a telephone pole downtown. The same symbol, printed in black ink. Underneath, a single line of text: THE GATHERING IS COMING. 'I've been seeing these for weeks,' Johnny said. 'Thought it was some band promotion. A festival, maybe.' He laughed, but there was no humor in it. 'This is the same symbol, Bob. Exact same.' Bob turned the device over. The back was etched with fine lines, almost like circuitry, but organic — like veins under skin. He pressed his thumb to the center of the symbol. The light flared. A pulse of warmth shot up his arm, and for a second, he saw something: a vast desert, a sky the color of bruised fruit, a figure standing on a dune. The figure turned. Bob gasped and dropped the device. It hit the forest floor with a soft thud, the glow fading to embers. Petunia barked — sharp, urgent. 'We need to show this to someone,' Johnny said, already reaching for the device. 'Someone who knows what this means.' Bob nodded, but his hand was shaking. The image lingered behind his eyes. The figure on the dune had no face — just a smooth, reflective surface, like chrome. And yet he felt it had been looking directly at him. Petunia pressed her wet nose into his palm and whined again. Not a warning this time. Something closer to fear. 'Come on, girl,' Bob whispered. 'Let's go home.' But as they turned back toward the trail, Bob realized he wasn't sure what 'home' meant anymore. The device felt heavier in Johnny's pocket than it should have been. And somewhere, beyond the treeline, a light flickered in the sky — low, steady, waiting.