Becky Bray had been waiting. The music faded as she watched them arrive, each face pale under the flickering candlelight. They moved with an unsettling grace, their formal attire a stark contrast to the decay clinging to their smiles. A bouquet of roses, black as midnight, was offered—a silent invitation. She accepted it, knowing this night wasn't about dancing or laughter. It was about witnessing, about being present for something ancient and inevitable. The confetti settled like ash, marking the end of an era, the beginning of another. And she would be here to see it through.