September 1987, outside Galena, Illinois — a town so small the funeral home doubles as the church basement. Luna recounts the night Henry Voss came in. Not as a body, but as a walk-in. No accident, no illness, no paperwork. Just a man in a damp jacket who asked to see the deceased. Specifically, the woman in the blue dress no one had claimed. Luna let him in. She stayed nearby because something about his quiet certainty felt wrong — like he already knew where she'd be laid, like he'd done this before. He didn't weep. He didn't pray. He just stood, and then he spoke to her. Not about her. To her. By the time Luna realized the room had gone cold enough to see her own breath, the clock was ticking backward. She doesn't know what he was. She only knows that when she went back to check the register, a new entry had appeared — the woman's name, a date of death that hadn't come yet, and a single word in the margin: 'Revisit.'
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