The next morning, Arthur tracked down the local journalist at a quiet café in the village square. Holding the crumpled newspaper clipping in his hand, Arthur explained the parrot’s bizarre fixation on the photograph. "I know it sounds crazy," Arthur admitted, taking a sip of black coffee. "But the bird reacted sharply to this boy's face. Is there any chance his family lost a scarlet macaw?"
The reporter sighed sympathetically, reviewing her notes from the story, before slowly shaking her head. She explained that the boy in the photo was her nephew, who had lived in the capital his entire life and was allergic to feathers. "I'm sorry, Arthur," she said gently, patting his arm. "He's never owned a bird. Your feathered friend must just recognize the likeness of a young boy."
Arthur walked back up the hill, feeling a heavy weight in his chest, the false lead leaving him right back at square one. That afternoon, a sudden rainstorm rolled over the mountains, almost echoing the sadness Arthur felt.