And the man beside me reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, gold key.

He handed it to me, his fingers cold and steady.

“This is for the drawer,” he said.

The drawer where the picture had been.

The drawer where the truth had been hidden for five years.

I took the key, its metal heavy in my palm.

“And Ethan?” I asked.

The man didn’t look at me. He just stared at the snow-covered street ahead.

“Ethan is where he belongs,” he said.

And the cab drove on, into the heart of the Chicago winter, leaving the empty castle behind.

The wind howled against the glass, a relentless, frozen song that would not end.

And we sat in the warmth of the taxi, waiting for the morning to come.

But the morning was a long way off.

And the storm was only getting started.

I looked at the key in my hand, the gold shining in the dim light of the dashboard.

And the question remained, unanswered in the quiet of the car.

Whose castle were we really trying to save?