October of '91, on a two-lane blacktop outside Grundy, Virginia. Luna's car died at dusk near an abandoned telephone exchange — a wood-frame building with a single lit window and a switchboard still humming inside. The woman who answered the door, Minna, wore a 1940s operator's headset and spoke like she'd been waiting for someone to call. Every line on that board was patchy, crossed with voices from other years — children counting in German, a man asking for his mother, static that formed words. Luna stayed the night, listening, and by morning she understood why the calls never stopped. They weren't looking for help. They were looking for someone to hear them. A quiet, slow-burn episode about what the dead leave on the line.