Megan Ravn held the glowing blue liquid aloft, its light reflecting in her intense eyes. The shop was silent save for the hum of the fluorescent lights above, casting long shadows across rows of grinning pumpkins and colorful sweets. Twelve o'clock. The hour when the veil thinned, they said. She’d been preparing this concoction all year, a blend of rare ingredients gathered under specific lunar cycles. A customer would arrive soon, drawn by an unseen force, seeking something only she could provide—a fleeting glimpse beyond the ordinary, a taste of what lay just out of reach. The neon sign flickered above: "Domae." It wasn't a shop; it was a gateway. And Megan Ravn was its keeper.