Luna is still inside her grandmother's preserved bedroom, the letter in her hand, the mirror showing her reflection aging backwards. She knows she has done this before—read this same letter, stood in this same room, reached for the same photograph that was never taken. But this time, the shadow child is watching, and the photograph is waiting somewhere else. Luna leaves the bedroom, following the hallway that her grandmother warned her not to walk, and finds a door that opens to a version of Sycamore Ridge where the lamp has never been lit. There, in a house that shouldn't exist, she finds the photograph—a picture of her grandmother as a young woman, standing beside a man whose face has been scratched out. And on the back, in her grandmother's handwriting, the same date as the letter: a date that hasn't happened yet.