In the autumn of 1998, Luna spent a week at the White Owl Inn, a faded resort town on the coast of Maine. The place was nearly empty—just a few regulars at the bar, a woman who played piano after midnight, and a glass paperweight in the lobby that seemed to hold a storm inside it. Every time Luna walked past the front desk, she felt the crystal pull her gaze. The woman at the piano told her it had been there since the inn opened in 1925—a gift from the original owner to his wife, who died the following winter. Luna started noticing things: the way the light bent through the crystal at different hours, the cold draft that moved against the air when she stood near it, the sensation of being watched from the corner of her eye. She began to understand that the crystal wasn't just an object—it was a lens, and something on the other side was looking back.

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