On Christmas Eve 2022, Luna's car skids off the unplowed gravel of St. Perpetua's Drive, outside the town of Coldwater, Nebraska. She walks a quarter mile through knee-deep snow toward a single lit window in a farmhouse. Inside, an old woman named Margaret is sitting at a kitchen table set for two—one plate empty, one plate full, both steaming. Margaret says she's been waiting for her daughter to come home for sixty-three years. She offers Luna a seat, a bowl of soup, and a story about the Christmas Eve her daughter walked out into the snow and never came back. The clock on the mantel chimes seven. Then eight. Then nine. The empty plate never cools. The front door never opens. But something scratches at the storm door—soft, like a child's mitten on glass. Luna leaves at midnight. She drives back past the farmhouse the next morning. There is no house. Just a field of snow and a single yew tree with a red ribbon tied to its lowest branch.

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