In the autumn of 2008, I spent a week at the Bitter Creek Motel in Lundy, California — a place that should have been forgettable. But on the second night, I found Room 6. The door was painted a deep, glossy pink, like a wound sealed with nail polish. Inside, a man sat at a table with a single photograph. He didn't look up when I entered. He just said, 'You see her too?' That week, I learned what it means to share a room with a stranger who has already been dead for three decades. And I learned that some doors don't open to the outside.

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