The next morning, I woke after only a few hours of sleep. The hospital photograph from my birth lay on the bedside table. Before I even got out of bed, I picked it up. This time I wasn’t looking at myself or my parents. I studied the elderly man—Elias Hawthorne—standing quietly in the corner. I searched my memory for any glimpse of him during my childhood. Nothing came. But I couldn’t shake the feeling that he hadn’t been watching the baby. He had been watching everyone else.
I finally returned Dominic’s call. His voice was steady but tired.
“We went back to Blackwood Hall after everyone left. Harriet noticed a discrepancy in the floor plans. A wall that shouldn’t exist. Behind it… there’s another room. Smaller. Much older than the archive. You need to see it yourself.”
I didn’t argue.
