Luna recalls a winter night in 1923 at the Cloverleaf Roadhouse, a tired old stop on a lonely stretch of highway outside Elko, Nevada. A single candle burned at the end of the bar every night, never relit, never replaced. The bartender, a man named Silas, told her it was for a woman who walked in one blizzard and never walked out. Luna sat with him until closing, watching that flame gutter and stretch, and she learned that some lights aren't meant to guide you home — they're meant to mark the place you left from. A quiet, slow-burn story about grief, waiting, and the things that refuse to go out.

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