“YOU CAPTURED THE EXACT MOMENT HIS SOUL LEFT. I AM HAUNTED. I HAVE SCREENSHOT IT. IT IS MY LOCKSCREEN. PLEASE DO MY CAT.”

She looked at the attic door.

“Next time, just leave a comment. You don’t have to haunt the critique section.”

She should have stopped. But the empty wall above the sofa began to hum. She scrolled deeper, past the five-star reviews that simply said “lovely” or “my gran would like this” , and into the abyss.

The kitchen light flickered. Eleanor’s hands went cold. She clicked the username. It was a real account, created fourteen months ago—three weeks after Daniel’s funeral. No profile picture. No other activity. Just that one review.