Truss Taal wasn't searching for ghosts, but echoes. Every Halloween, she returned to the old distillery, tracing the patterns of dust and decay. Tonight’s ritual was simple: light the candles, arrange the bottles—remnants from her grandfather’s final batch—and hold the key. It unlocked not a door, but a memory; a taste of spiced apple cider on a crisp autumn evening, laughter echoing through these very walls. A fleeting moment, preserved in amber and candlelight.