At a corner café, he asked the barista if she knew of any Blackwood families nearby. She shook her head, brow furrowed as though searching her memory. An elderly man sipping coffee at the next table chimed in, saying the name sounded familiar but old—like something from his parents’ stories.
Ethan pressed further, stopping at the post office, then a hardware store. Each time he received the same response: uncertainty, vague recollection, or polite dismissal. The name hung just beyond reach, close enough to taste but not close enough to touch.