Maryann drifted through the fog-choked streets of Whitechapel, her bare feet never quite touching the cobblestones. The living couldn't see her anymore. She searched their faces anyway, hunting for the one person who knew the truth about her death. She needed a place to start, somewhere to call her own while she searched. Down a narrow alley, past crumbling tenements, she found it. A grey brick crypt stood alone in a forgotten corner, its iron door hanging loose on rusted hinges. The cold stone walls wouldn't bother her now. She passed through the door without opening it and claimed the space as hers. Inside the crypt, she discovered an old wooden board covered in strange symbols and letters. Someone had left it behind years ago, abandoned like her. The board gave her an idea. She could use it to send messages, to reach the living who might remember that night. Her ghostly fingers traced the carved patterns, and the planchette trembled beneath her touch. But messages alone wouldn't be enough. She needed to move quickly through the streets, to search every corner where witnesses might hide. Around her neck, an amulet suddenly appeared, glowing with soft light. It pulsed against her chest, warm despite her cold form. When she touched it, the crypt walls blurred and she found herself standing in a different street entirely. The amulet would take her anywhere she needed to go. Now she had her tools, her sanctuary, and her mission. The search for her truth could truly begin.

Maryann stood in her crypt and stared at the Ouija board. The wooden surface felt smooth under her ghostly fingers. She needed to learn how the living world worked now. Could she touch things? Could she move them? She pressed her palm against the planchette and pushed. It slid across the board, scraping wood against wood. A cold thrill ran through her. She could make things move. She practiced spelling words, guiding the pointer from letter to letter. Her name appeared slowly: M-A-R-Y-A-N-N. The board would help her talk to the living, but first she had to find someone willing to listen. She needed to find people who were there that night, people who saw what happened. The old hospital on the edge of Whitechapel came to mind. That's where they took the sick and injured back then. Two working girls in long skirts and black boots passed by her crypt entrance. Their voices carried through the fog. They were talking about Polly, her old name. Maryann followed them down the street, listening. They mentioned the hospital ward where Polly's friends had stayed after the attack. These women knew something. They remembered. But how could anyone find her crypt in the dark? The narrow alley had no streetlamps. Maryann floated back to her sanctuary and studied the problem. She found an iron wall torch leaning against the stones inside. With effort, she dragged it outside and mounted it beside the entrance. The flame would guide visitors through the darkness. Next to it, she placed a weatherproof chest. Anyone who came could leave their stories inside, protected from the rain. Now she had what she needed. A way to communicate, a way to be found, and a starting point for her search. The hospital held answers. The working girls held memories. The torch burned steady in the night, marking her place in the world of the living.