The attic had never felt more alive. The glow from Owen’s tablet lit up the dust dancing in the air. His breath caught in his throat as he stared at the puddle of water on the wooden floor; still shimmering, still holding that bizarre, almost sacred shape. He leaned in closer. It was a pattern. Not random. Not abstract. Deliberate. Intelligent. Planted. “Dots. Lines. Intervals...” Morse code. He grabbed his notepad, brushing away debris as he knelt and decoded the water trail. His pen flew over the paper, translating short and long notches into dashes and dots, and then finally