It was the summer of 2017, just past midnight on Birch Avenue in the small town of Stillwater, Minnesota. The streetlights along that block had a habit of flickering in sequence, one after another, like a wave of light moving away from you. Luna's friend Becca found a pocket watch lying on the cracked sidewalk under the last working light. It was old, silver, engraved with initials that matched none of the names in the neighborhood. The hands were frozen at 3:17. When she wound it, it didn't tick — it hummed. A low, steady note that seemed to come from inside the ground, not the watch. Becca started hearing that hum everywhere, in the walls of her apartment, in the water pipes, in her own breathing. She tried to return it to the spot, but the watch was gone from her pocket. The hum stayed. A story about possession, frequency, and the things we carry without knowing.