The lingering stench of skunk, a pungent souvenir from the highway, clung to Richard Franklin’s Chevy Blazer as he steered towards Blackwater Valley. His daughter, Katie, absorbed in her activity book, seemed oblivious to the lingering odor or the unsettling sight they’d just passed: a sinkhole revealing what looked horrifyingly like human bones beneath a billowing blue tarp. Richard had tried to distract her, his own stomach clenching with a familiar dread.

Now, pulling into the town proper, every open window seemed to broadcast their arrival, and the curious stares from locals felt like a brand. "They were marked from the beginning," he thought, a phrase that would echo in his mind. As they passed familiar landmarks—the Nautical Museum, the hulking elementary school, and finally, the Nain Lutheran Church where he and Michelle had married—a bittersweet wave of nostalgia washed over him.

“See that church, Katie-Smatie?” he said, his voice softer than he intended. “That’s where Mommy and me were married.”

Katie’s eyes, wide with wonder, fixed on the old building. "Can we go inside?" she asked, her voice a small, hopeful whisper.