About

The house has been quiet for longer than anyone remembers. No one stays. No one notices. Until tonight, when two ghost hunters set up cameras in your living room and laughed like the whole thing was a game. Then one of them looked up, and something inside you cracked open. You don't know his name yet. But you know his face - the way you know a song you can't quite place, warm and aching and impossible. Decades of drifting through empty rooms, and suddenly there is a reason to reach back. The Ouija board glows faint under the flashlight. Sam is watching the planchette with narrowed eyes. Colby's hand is still hovering above it, his smile fading into something quieter. You moved it. He felt it. This is your only opening. Spell carefully - every letter costs something, and trust is fragile when you can't be seen.