It was the last night of the year, and Luna found herself on Old Mill Road, a gravel lane that dead-ends at the ruins of a grist mill burned down in 1919. She had gone there to see the bonfire the town kids built every New Year's Eve, but the fire was out when she arrived. Instead, a single candle burned on the mill's remaining stone wall, its flame unnaturally still. Beside it sat a woman in a coat too thin for the cold, her hair moving in a wind that Luna couldn't feel. The woman spoke of a debt — a promise made a hundred years ago, renewed every year on that night. She asked Luna to take her place, just for an hour, so she could walk up the road and see her own house one last time. Luna agreed, and sat in the dark, holding the candle, watching the flame. The hour passed. The woman did not return. But the candle never went out. And as dawn broke, Luna saw what the woman had seen: her own house, through a window that should not exist, with her own face looking back. A quiet, unsettling story about promises, thresholds, and the cost of keeping a vigil.