Though the mayor’s directions were vague, they proved adequate and Ike stood before the lonely house as described. A small plaque next to the door read: Constable William Lauren. Ike noticed two empty screw holes beneath the plaque and guessed a longer one had been placed there once upon a time. Perhaps carrying the name of his mother and himself also. He tried the key in the door and it turned with relative ease. The door opened inwards to a thick veil of darkness. A smell of worm eaten wood and stale air bellowed out into his face, but it was not as unpleasant as he had feared. He poked his head inside and tried to make out the surroundings. He spotted a shape a few feet from the door that he thought was a lamp and walked towards it, only to immediately crash his shin into something on the ground. The object rattled loudly and Ike knew right away what he had struck. Rubbing his shin he carefully moved around the object and walked with his hand outstretched until it touched the curved shape of a lamp. He patted the table it was placed on until his hands found a matchbox. Silver lining, he thought.
The lamp sent out a lazy glow of light that illuminated the entry hall. He turned back towards the door and saw the box of empty bottles he had tripped over. The labels all said Rennoth Distillery. He closed the front door to shut out the daylight, which seemed to make the small lamp shine a little brighter. He looked around the small hall, seeing a door on his right and a staircase on his left that went to the second floor. The door on the right had no lock and opened into a modest kitchen. The floor was tiled, but many tiles were cracked or missing, revealing the stone paste used to lay them in the first place. There was another door to go through and it led to a living room with a dusty bookshelf and a single lounge chair. He had noticed heavy shutters covering the windows in both rooms, but each of them bore a keyhole and would not open. Ike tried to key from the front door, but it was too large to fit. He paced the kitchen and living room a few times but found nothing that could help him open them, so he returned to the hall and went upstairs.
Two doors led to two rooms, a sodden bedroom and study. He tried to sit on the bed and felt his spirits drop a bit; it was hard packed with straw or similar and he felt no desire to sleep on it, in spite of the night’s lack of the same. He went into the study and sat behind the desk. The space was well maintained and seemed almost like an office with a large upholstered chair in the corner. A small bookcase stood beside it, filled with dusty literature. Perhaps this was where the locals could find him, Ike thought, whenever an argument about price and fish went too far. On the desk stood a photo of a family. A tall man had his arm around a woman holding a sickly infant. They looked quite bleak, but it was the style at the time he supposed. He recognized the woman as his mother and studied the face of the man closely. He could see the resemblance, but ‘spitting image’ was a bit generous. He placed it back and walked the office studying the other photographs hanging on the walls. Most were of his mother and father and not a single one of himself. It wasn’t unheard of that children could sometimes spoil a marriage, though it wasn’t oft discussed. Ike had put on a face like he was pondering this and nodded. Even though he never knew the man, the thought of Ike being unwanted gave him the sensation of his heart being squeezed. The office did not have much else to offer, so he opened a few drawers to check for keys but found nothing. He approached a large cabinet in the corner of the room that could almost fit a man and looked inside. He spotted a jar in the very back of the bottom shelf and something tingled in his mind. He reached into it and could feel various coins against his fingertips before he grazed something else. The key he pulled from the jar fit perfectly into the shutter, that let out a heavy clunk as he turned it. Light flowed into the office and he felt relief as the darkness was finally forced back. He did the same in the bedroom and almost rushed downstairs to the remaining rooms. Dust particles shimmered slightly in the sunlight and everything appeared dirtier than before. The lamp was returned to the hallway and he opened his satchel to pull out the file on his father. In the study he whacked the upholstery a few times before sitting down in the large chair. Despite his efforts a cloud of dust shot up around him, but his mind was already elsewhere. The light that now flowed into the small room was perfect to read by and Ike began to delve into the enigma that was his father.
The folder contained a few pages, each handwritten and adorned with stamps marking them as official. The oldest was dated back around fifty years and declared that William Lauren had been born in the home of Augusta Lauren and Cliff Lauren with no issue. The latest declared his death, following a month long disappearance. Just as the mayor had predicted, the papers gave only little insight into Ike’s father, but it certainly was interesting to him. The papers told of a man who had served as constable from his early twenties to his death. Not a single arrest on record, but a fair deal of dealing with the public. Ike wondered if they even had a jail here or if the troublemakers were simply put to work for a few days. All he could remember were the busy streets of London, bustling with life and all manner of characters. When reading these dry reports from a small-town constable, he was quite charmed. One of the pages was written in a different hand than the others, a messier one. Ike read it with some difficulty:

On this night my son was born. My wife, Carla Lauren, gave birth with much difficulty, but both her and the child are now safe. As the father and official witness, I declare my born son, Ikarus Lauren, as a citizen of Rennoth forevermore. 

~William Lauren.

The document bore two signatures, one of Ike’s father and one of the mayor. The date written matched almost exactly Ike’s birthday. He read his own name again and was amazed. His mother had called him Ike always and all papers he carried or knew bore the same name. He took the paper and placed it with the other important documents in his satchel. If an issue ever came up about his name it would be a hassle, so he supposed it would be wise if he carried the only document able to challenge that. He thumbed the other papers but found them less enticing than before. A low moan from his midriff let him know that he had other more pressing matters to attend, so he packed up the folder and left it on the table. He would have to go to the market and find something to eat before it was too late; there was no telling when people called it a day in this strange valley.