The address in his hand led him to a small structure with uneven steps and a porch light that flickered as though unsure of its own resolve. He stood there longer than necessary, listening to muffled sounds from inside, including laughter that did not belong to someone living without joy, and that contradiction unsettled him far more than silence would have.
When he knocked, the sound echoed softly, followed by movement. The door opened to reveal a woman in her early thirties with tired eyes and a posture shaped by long hours of standing. Her hands bore faint scars from work that demanded repetition and patience, and when she looked at him, she did not flinch or retreat.
“Yes,” she asked calmly, though her voice carried the weight of caution.
“My name is Benjamin Crowley,” he replied, forcing himself to meet her gaze. “I am looking for a child named Lucy Harper.”