It starts with an email from a name Luna doesn't recognize, linking to a private video on a forgotten platform. The footage is from a baby monitor placed in a child's room in the Miller House on Hemlock Lane, a town she's never visited. The timestamp reads 3:14 AM, six months ago. Luna watches the first minute, then the next, unable to stop. The room is dark. The crib is empty. But the monitor picks up a sound—soft, rhythmic, like someone slowly rocking a chair. There's no chair in the room. She watches until the video ends, then she checks her email again. The sender's address is a string of numbers and letters, no name. The subject line reads: 'You need to see this.' She doesn't know who sent it, or why her. But she can't stop thinking about the rocking sound, and the way the video seems to loop at the end, the last thirty seconds repeating, as if something wanted her to watch it again. And again.