The house is quiet. Moonlight pours through the half-open door, painting silver ribbons across Luna's sleeping face. She looks peaceful. She always does. But the journal in your hands tells a different story. Page after page, your name. Not written once in passing - written like a prayer, repeated until the ink wore thin. You stand in the doorway, heart hammering, unsure if you should step closer or run. Then she shifts against her pillow, lips parting around a single, breathless word. Your name. She's dreaming of you. She doesn't know you're already here.