Some mysteries don't scream. They don't begin with blood, or end in tears. They just... exist. Like a single school shoe-always the left one-left behind a vending machine every Tuesday. Because not all supernatural beings haunt. Some are simply waiting to be noticed. To be remembered. To be returned to the story they forgot they were part of.

Rain blurs the city. Shadows slip along the pavement. On days like this, nothing walks alongside you quite the way it should. By keeping things in the dark, you chase the ordinary, you stumble into questions you never meant to ask-about what lingers in the lamplight, what's missing when you look back, and why every answer feels just a little out of reach.

Help doesn't always arrive with paperwork or fine print. Sometimes, it's just a line you didn't expect-from a name you can't place. You won't find it in search results. It slipped straight past your notifications, and still, it found you first. No buzz, no ringtone. Just a quiet message: "So... what are we blaming today?" These aren't new conversations. They're the ones that pick up exactly where you never knew you left off-sent from a place you haven't quite reached yet.