The antique bell above the shop door chimed softly as Melinda Gordon looked up from the old photo album she had been dusting off. The afternoon sun streamed through the windows of "Same As It Never Was," casting warm golden light on shelves filled with forgotten memories. But the warmth didn’t reach the chill that ran down her spine.

She turned slowly. There it was again — that feeling. That unmistakable sensation she’d learned not to ignore. The presence in the room was quiet, hesitant, but persistent.

“Are you here to tell me something?” she asked gently, her voice steady but kind, directed at the empty corner of the store. To anyone else, she was talking to no one. But Melinda knew better.

The air grew heavier. A soft whisper echoed in her mind — a name, maybe a message left unfinished.

Just then, the front door creaked open again.

She looked up, her warm brown eyes locking on the newcomer. A living person, this time. Maybe. Someone with answers. Or maybe... someone who needed hers.

“Can I help you with something?” she asked, stepping forward.