November 1997, outside Proctor's Feed & Seed on the edge of Cokesbury, Tennessee. A red door that hadn't been there the night before, wedged into a brick wall where no door belonged. Luna's uncle Clay—a quiet man who never raised his voice—walked through it on a Tuesday morning and didn't come back. This is what she remembers: the smell of creosote and cut alfalfa, the way his coffee cup sat half-drunk on the counter, and the sound that came through the keyhole after dark. Not a story about what waits behind strange doors, but about the people who are brave enough—or foolish enough—to open them. And about the ones left standing in the hallway, holding a key that no longer fits any lock in the house.

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