Grace Luna focused all her energy into the heart, its luminescence pulsing against the fading sunset. The spirits—lost loves, unfinished promises—drifted closer, drawn to the warmth she offered. It wasn’t about summoning or binding; it was about mending. Each flicker of blue light represented a fractured memory, a regret softened, a connection briefly restored. She didn't offer solutions, only a space for echoes to linger. The skulls weren’t warnings, but reminders of time’s passage. Tonight, she wasn’t a sorceress, but a beacon—a fragile bridge between the living and those who sought solace in the mist.