Morning sunlight falls into the bedroom. On the pillow lies an unsigned red letter, and a cinnabar-colored mark rests on your palm. You try to recall what you did last night, but all you remember is the same recurring dream—a dream of a desolate mansion, with someone waiting behind its door. From that day on, you begin to be drawn toward the mansion that only appears in the liminal space between waking and sleep. Reason and fear wage war within you, and all you want to ask is one question: Who is waiting for me, and what do they owe me?