Word of what Ethan had done spread quietly through the town. Neighbors stopped him in the street, offering nods of respect or a kind word. At first, the attention unsettled him—he had never sought it—but slowly, it rooted him. He was no longer just a newcomer with a rented room above a shop. He was part of the place now, tied to its history, woven into its memory.
One evening, as Ethan left the old man’s home with the sunset painting the hills gold, he paused at the gate. Inside, the man sat by the window, the photograph propped carefully beside him, the brass key resting in his hand.