Winter of 1927. A narrow road through the pine barrens of northern Wisconsin. A roadside tavern called the Thistle Taproom, where the floor tilts and the jukebox plays the same scratchy record all night. Luna stops for a drink and finds a man at the end of the bar nursing a glass of rye he never touches. The bartender doesn't look at him. The glass sweats, but the whiskey never lowers. She asks about him, and what she learns is not a ghost story — it's a story about a promise made to someone who can't let go. No cold spots, no moans. Just a man who sits, night after night, waiting for a door that never opens. And the single drop of amber that falls from his glass, every hour, onto a floorboard that has long since warped from the weight of it.

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