By dusk, he found himself back on Riverside Street, notebook in hand, the key heavy in his pocket. He whispered the name under his breath—Blackwood—as though speaking it might summon someone, anyone, who still remembered.
By the third evening, Ethan’s resolve had thinned. He had walked circles around the town, notebook pages filled with question marks and half-answers, each inquiry about the Blackwood family ending the same way: confusion, polite shrugs, or vague recollections that led nowhere.