October 2004, deep in the Missouri Ozarks, on a stretch of county highway called St. Polycarp's Bend. Luna's cousin Marlene took the curve at midnight, just like she had a hundred times before. But this time something was waiting in the road—a woman in a white dress, barefoot, with her mouth sewn shut. Marlene's car stalled. The engine died. The radio went to static. She sat there for three hours while that woman stood in the glare of the headlights, not moving, not blinking, her hands pressed flat against the glass. By the time dawn broke and the road was empty, Marlene had stopped screaming. She just stared. She hasn't spoken a full sentence since. Luna drove that same road three nights later, looking for answers, and found a pile of stones, a single white thread, and a feeling that some roads don't just lead you—they keep you.