Seven-year-old Luna dropped her small silver fork with a soft clink against her porcelain plate and stared wide-eyed at the empty wooden chair across from her.
"Mama," she whispered with a tone of absolute certainty, her voice trembling but steady, "the man at our dinner table says he's sorry for interrupting."
Emma's stomach twisted with a sharp stab of worry. Her gaze flicked to the chair—an ordinary, unoccupied chair that now felt unnervingly ominous beneath the warm glow of the kitchen light. "Luna," she said carefully, forcing calm into her voice, "there's nobody there."
"Yes there is," Luna insisted, her pale-blue eyes shining with a mix of innocence and eerie authority. "His name is Mr. Peterson, and he died yesterday. He's waiting to decide if he wants to use his resurrection power."
