Finally, Benjamin inhaled slowly, steadying himself against the weight of memory.
He walked toward the door.
His knuckles struck the frame with controlled determination.
Inside the house, slow footsteps approached, each measured movement reflecting the fatigue of someone long accustomed to physical labor. The door opened with a faint creak, revealing a woman whose presence radiated quiet resilience rather than surprise.
Margaret Doyle stood there, fifty-five years old, her silver-threaded hair gathered loosely behind her head. Her face bore the unmistakable imprint of time, sun, and uncountable early mornings spent working shifts that demanded endurance above all else. She wore a faded diner uniform embroidered with her name, its fabric still marked by faint stains of coffee and grease. Her roughened hands rested cautiously against the doorframe.
“Yes?” Margaret asked gently, her voice careful yet polite.
Benjamin swallowed visibly.
“Are you Margaret Doyle?” Benjamin asked, his tone composed yet fragile.