Luna finds a voicemail from Clara, an old friend she hasn't spoken to in years. It's late, past midnight, and Clara's voice is thin, frayed. She's at the Roundabout Diner in Bitter Creek, Oregon — a place Luna doesn't remember ever existing. Clara talks about the waitress with no reflection, the other customers all staring at a crack in the wall, and the clock ticking backwards. Then the call cuts. Luna drives two hours to Bitter Creek. The diner is there, but it's boarded up, windows painted black. The payphone outside has no dial tone. Inside, through a gap in the boards, she sees a single light on — and a figure seated at the counter, facing away. She comes home to find her own clock ticking backwards. She hasn't stopped hearing it since.