Hypnos stepped out of his dark stone palace, the ornate horn from his mother slung at his hip. Inside that golden vessel, one day, the black poppy would bloom. But he had no seed. Without it, the flower that could put even a god to sleep would remain a rumor. He climbed to Olympus, to the sun-drenched golden pavilion where Demeter kept what little still grew. Vines hung limp. Fruit lay bruised on the marble. She stood among them with her twin torches burning low. "I make things grow," she said without turning. "I am not doing that. Not anymore. Go." Hypnos did not go. He watched her grief and saw, tucked into the folds of her golden gown, a small clay locket shaped like a pomegranate. Inside it, he knew, she kept one black seed — a gift from a grieving daughter, a piece of the dark her child now lived in. He lifted the horn and breathed a thin note across the pavilion. Demeter swayed. Her torches dimmed. She sank to her knees among the rotting fruit and slept. He knelt beside her and took the locket gently. The seed inside was small, slick, and black as a closed eye. He tucked it into the horn. The seed was his now — but Demeter would wake, and she would know who had touched her grief.