Anaya often found it difficult to sleep in new places, especially grand old hotels that whispered with forgotten histories. The Golden Spire, with its polished brass accents and velvet curtains, hummed with a quiet energy even in the deepest hours of the night. Tonight, however, something more than the usual creaks and distant street sounds drifted through her open window. A soft, melancholic melody, like a lullaby played on tiny, intricate bells, wove itself into the still air. She lay perfectly still, her eyes wide open in the faint glow of the streetlights filtering through her window. The music was faint but insistent, seeming to beckon her. It pulsed with a quiet magic, too curious to ignore. Her parents were sound asleep in the adjoining room, their gentle breathing a rhythmic counterpoint to the hotel’s silent vigil. Anaya carefully slipped out of bed, her bare feet silent on the cool carpet. Clad in her nightdress, she eased open her bedroom door.