Luna recalls a summer in the late 90s when she worked the graveyard shift at Sparkle Wash, a rundown laundromat on the edge of a dying mill town in upstate New York. One humid August night, a woman in a damp coat brought in a single black trash bag. She never spoke. Luna helped her load a machine, and the clothes inside—wool sweaters, child's pajamas, a man's flannel—were still wet with river water. The woman watched the dryer spin for six hours, then left the bag behind. Luna opened it in the back room after closing. Inside was a high school yearbook from 1987, its pages glued together with something dark. The last page held a single photograph: the same woman, younger, standing on a bridge over the Blackwater River. Behind her, a group of children waved from the railing. The water below was perfectly still. Luna kept the yearbook. She still has it. She never found out who the woman was, or why she came back that night. But sometimes, on humid August nights, she hears the dryer running in her own basement—when she knows nothing is in it.