Mycela presses her palm against the mycelium wall and feels the absence where the fourth site used to hum. The threads she wove from it still pulse with data — structure diagrams, ritual instructions, the pattern of seven spirals — but the living connection has gone dark. She walks outside to the crater's edge. The runic symbols still glow crimson around the rim, but the center is silent black. No signal rises from the abyss. She kneels and touches the stone, searching for any vibration, any trace of what broke the link. Nothing answers. The site didn't fade slowly like dying roots. It stopped all at once, like something cut it away. Back inside, she lifts the severed threads from their basin. They curl in her hands, still seeking to root themselves somewhere new. The fourth site's entire memory lives here now — nowhere else. She weaves them into the wall slowly, feeling each strand settle into place. The archive grows heavier with every loss it holds. The network needs seven sites to complete the transformation ritual. She has threads from one that no longer exists. She stands in the center of her house and counts the remaining connections. Six sites still hum. The question she doesn't speak aloud: whether she's preserving what the ritual needs, or just watching it die one site at a time.