December of 2003, on a back road outside Millbrook, New York, Luna stopped at a farm stand that only appeared after dark. The girl behind the table sold wreaths made of juniper and dried hydrangea, each with a handwritten tag naming someone who had died that year. Luna bought one for a stranger—a boy named Eli she'd never met—because the girl's voice sounded like she already knew what would happen next. That night, driving home, she saw him standing at the fence line in the snow, wearing the same blue coat from his school photo, watching her pass. A quiet story about grief, the way the dead accept small kindnesses, and the gate that stays open a little longer than it should. There is no monster. There is no jump. Just a girl selling wreaths on a cold road, and a boy who needed one.

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