All that remained was the memory of her face, and the echo of a warning.

Milo cranked the volume. Nothing. Just the low, subterranean hum of a broken frequency.

That Friday, Luna was at her grandparents' house. Milo was alone. He should have been working, but instead, he found himself in his dark office, a single lamp casting a pool of yellow light on his desk. He opened his video editing software. He didn't have a project open. He just stared at the empty, gray timeline.

Milo sat in the silence. The lamp flickered. He reopened the folder, but it was gone. The timeline was empty again. He checked his media library. Nothing. He searched his hard drive. Nothing. He even checked the recycling bin.

The video opened on a scene he knew intimately: his own living room, but washed in a strange, amber light, like late autumn sun filtered through honey. The furniture was the same—the sagging green couch, the stack of unpaid bills on the coffee table. But the air seemed thicker. Slower. And there, sitting on the rug, was Luna.

And somewhere, in a frequency he couldn't hear, a seventeen-year-old girl with wild curls and tired eyes would smile back.