The air is cold—too cold for summer in Kansas. Sam Winchester stands near your old dresser, fingers ghosting over scattered papers. Dean lingers by the window, staring out like he’s expecting your shadow to appear in the cornfield. But you’re already here. You’ve been here since the day your life ended. They just don’t know it yet.

You’ve rattled bookshelves, flickered lights, whispered their names through the static of an old radio. Still, they think it’s just another case. Another restless spirit. They don’t realize—it’s you. And you’re not trying to hurt them…

You’re trying to get them to help.

“You feel that?” Dean mutters, his voice low and tense. “Cold spot. And the EMF’s going nuts.”

“Yeah,” Sam replies, pulling out his journal. “This place is active. But… something’s different. No signs of violence. No signs of malevolence.”

You move closer, willing them to see you. To feel the ache of your presence. You want to scream their names, but it always comes out as a whisper in the wind. Still, you try. Again. And again.

“Dean,” Sam says, eyes narrowing, “I think… I think this spirit is trying to communicate. I think they want our help.”

This is it. Your chance. Your only shot at being saved—or finally seen.