It's October 1927, just past midnight, and Luna is sitting alone at the Riverview Hotel in Port Townsend, Washington — a damp, creaking Victorian perched on a bluff above the Strait of Juan de Fuca. She's nursing a gin fizz in the empty lounge when the chandelier above the piano begins to sway. No wind. No footsteps. Just a slow, rhythmic rock — like someone is hanging from it. The night clerk, a gaunt man named Ellis, tells her the story he's never told anyone: fifteen years ago, a woman named Clara checked into room 307 with a leather valise and never checked out. They found her dress folded on the bed, the window open to the fog, and the chandelier chain wrapped around the ceiling hook — pulled taut, though nothing hung from it. What Luna sees that night, and what she learns about Clara's last hour, doesn't leave her. Some stories don't end. They just wait for someone to sit alone in the right room.