The Watcher does not speak the way things speak. No mouth, no throat, no breath — and yet Wren hears something, low and close as if pressed against the inside of her helmet rather than carried on the air. *They went in*, it says. *As you went in. They reached the light.* A pause that feels geological. *They did not ask.* Wren holds very still. "Didn't ask what?" The not-face tilts — the slow, measuring angle of something ancient considering whether a question is worth its answer. The Hollow around her is absolutely silent. No wind, no birdsong, only the Ember's warmth pressing at her shoulder blades. *Whether they were meant to carry it.* The amber light behind her neither flickers nor fades. But Wren's mouth has gone dry, and she becomes very aware that she has not asked either. Not yet. She could still ask. She could still walk away.