December 1987, the last farmhouse on Hollow Road before the woods take over. Luna’s grandmother always said the wreath on the door had to be made fresh each year—yew and holly, bound with red thread—and that it must never be hung after dark. But this year the snow came early, the sun set before she finished, and the thing she saw standing at the edge of the cornfield didn't move until she touched the ribbon. A story about old traditions, the things they keep away, and what happens when you break the rules one time too close to Yule.

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