“Show me,” she said.

Her father’s handwriting.

Valerica didn’t move. “You died.”

And then one night, he’d left his research scattered across the kitchen table, kissed her forehead, and walked toward the Atlantic with a lantern in his hand.

Valerica looked at the vial, then at her father—the man who had taught her to spot a hoax from a hundred paces, who had spun stories like spider silk, who had vanished without a single scream.

And for the first time since she was ten years old, Valerica Steele believed.

“Because the door is failing. And you’re the only one who knows how to listen.” He pressed the vial into her palm. Cold, but humming. Alive. “You don’t have to believe me. You’ve never had to. But I need you to hear me, just this once.”