They’re listening through the mycelium now.

My roommate touched one of the caps this morning. Said it felt warm, like skin. Now his fingers are webbed with thin white threads, and when he sleeps, his mouth moves in languages that don’t have vowels.

Last night, I heard it hum. Not a sound, exactly. More like a memory of a song that’s rotting.

The spores came up through the floorboards like a whisper. First, a fine gray fuzz—almost beautiful, like velvet on old bones. Then the stalks pushed out, pale and veined, each cap a tiny ear tuned to some frequency just below human hearing.