Ethan Ward was twenty-three, a transfer student still adjusting to the rhythms of a town tucked against the hillside. He’d come here for education, chasing a degree in environmental science after realizing city life drained him more than it inspired. He told himself the move was temporary, but part of him craved the clean slate.
Renting a small room above a shutter repair shop, he lived quietly, spending most mornings on foot. Each day he took the same cracked sidewalk toward the college library, headphones dangling but never on, his thoughts busy with lectures and deadlines. The walk was uneventful—until he started noticing the dog.