Christmas Eve, 2019. A woman named Clara buys a single snow globe from a dusty antique shop on Maple Avenue in the town of Millbrook, New York — population twelve thousand, deep in the Hudson Valley. The snow globe is old, heavy, its glass cold to the touch. Inside: a tiny white farmhouse, a single bare tree, and snow that falls without shaking. Clara sets it on her nightstand. By midnight, the snow inside is up to the windowsills. By two in the morning, she hears a creak from inside the globe — a door opening. And by three, the snow in her own driveway is fresh and unmarked — except for a single set of footprints leading from the street to her front door, each one filling with silver flakes that never melt. Luna tells Clara's story: how a collector's curiosity became a vigil, how she learned the globe held a December that never ended, and how she still keeps it on her nightstand — because if she stops watching, she's afraid of what might step out.

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