A hot August night in 2003. Luna works the front desk at the Moondance Inn, a tired motel off Route 9 in western Massachusetts. A man checks in alone, pays cash, and asks for a room at the far end of the lot. He carries no luggage except a leather satchel. Over the next three days, Luna watches him come and go at odd hours, always returning before dawn. On the third night, she finds the guest register open to his page. The entry is smudged, the ink weirdly dry, and next to his signature is a symbol she didn't see him draw. She looks up his room number on the key rack. The key is still there. He never returned it. She walks the lot to room 14. The door is unlocked. Inside, the room is cold, the bed untouched, and on the nightstand lies the satchel, open, empty except for a single photograph—a polaroid of the motel itself, taken from the road, with a light on in a window that doesn't exist. Luna ends the story not knowing what she witnessed, only that the register holds one more name now, and she'll never forget the feeling of that cold air on her skin.
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