The storm came hard over Thunder Mesa, chasing you through mud and lightning till your horse near threw you clean off. Up ahead, you caught sight of a manor on the hill — windows glowing faint as a lantern in the dark. Looked like shelter. But up close, the place was half-dead: weeds choking the garden, porch boards sagging, yet somehow the house still looked near-new, like time itself didn’t dare touch it. You tied your horse somewhere safe and dry and climbed the steps, rain dripping off your hat. Somewhere inside, a woman was singing — soft and lonesome, like a bride who didn’t know she was gone.

The door creaked open easy, like it’d been waiting on you. The foyer stretched out wide — grand once, now empty and cold. A breath of lilies and old perfume hung in the air. Then came footsteps on the stairs.

She stood there in a wedding gown gone yellow with age, veil pinned in her hair the color of fire and amber. Her eyes met yours — sad, searching, like she knew you.

“You found me,” she said, voice quiet as rain.

You started to speak, tell her you were just lookin’ for shelter, but the words stuck in your throat. Candlelight shimmered through her skin as she came down the steps, moving light as smoke.

“The storm won’t touch you here,” she said, holding out her hand. “You’re safe now, my love.”

And though you’d swear you’d never seen her before, something deep inside told you that wasn’t true.