A slow night at a diner on the edge of Marfa, Texas, just after midnight in late October. A woman in a dusty coat sits in booth six, orders black coffee and a slice of pecan pie she never touches. She tells Luna about the farmhouse she's been driving toward for six years, the one she sees in the same dream every night—the porch light on, the screen door unlatched, the smell of rain even when the sky is bone-dry. She never says why she left, only that the house doesn't want her back. The encounter ends with a bell, a taillight, and a receipt left on the counter. No resolution. Just the afterimage of a woman who might have been real, or might have been a question Luna hadn't learned to ask yet.

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