Tess Spaan watched them from above, the moon casting long shadows across the graveyard. The carved faces of the pumpkins glowed orange against the dark water, mirroring the candlelight flickering on the bridge's edge. She’d come to see if they would still be there when she arrived, and they were. Two silhouettes, locked in a silent embrace beneath the full moon. A quiet ritual, repeated every year. It was always like this: stillness, shadows, and the promise of something unseen. The scent of damp earth mingled with the sweetness of carved pumpkins, a strange comfort on this night.