Whitechapel, London—a district infamous for its crime. The air was thick with the smell of industry, refuse, and animal waste. The atmosphere lit up with the sounds of people—the sound of a craftsman''s hammer or the murmur of diverse accents. Tightly packed, decaying buildings housed the many who called Whitechapel home. A hub of bustling trades and crafts, Whitechapel''s constant flow of goods and people linked it to global trade. Amid the grime and chaos, it was the resilience and adaptability of its people that gave Whitechapel its character—each one a thread in the fabric of its story.


    Among those lives, one family shared a cherished tradition: celebrating a mother''s birthday. In a society where such days were often forgotten, they made it important. This year was no exception.


    A boy tugged at his mother''s hand, urging her toward the edge of the bustling marketplace. "Mama, we have to!" he whined, his small hands pushing against her back with all the strength he could muster.


    "Quite frankly, we don''t have to," Lorelei replied with mock seriousness, placing a delicate hand to her forehead as if about to faint. "Oh, the tragedy of it all!" she cried, feigning a swoon.


    "Mama!" the boy squealed in frustration, his heels sliding on the cobblestones as she leaned into his efforts. Nearby, murmurs rose among the spectators, who couldn''t help but pause and watch the playful spectacle. A low, familiar sigh broke through the crowd as Arthur stepped forward, his broad frame parting the onlookers.


    "You two are causing a scene," Arthur grumbled, his arms crossed tightly over his chest. His eyes darted through the crowd, his discomfort evident.


    "Come now, Arthur." Lorelei stepped away, leaving the boy to stumble forward with a gasp before erupting into giggles. She reached for his crossed arms, her touch softening his stern demeanor. "We''re only playing." She pressed a kiss to his cheek, earning an exaggerated roll of his eyes.


    "I''d prefer not to be gawked at in public, Lorelei," Arthur muttered, though a small smile tugged at his lips. Behind him, a smaller boy peeked out shyly, his wide eyes darting between his mother and the crowd.


    "It''s alright, Cleo," the older boy—Oakley—said brightly, stepping toward him. "Eyes mean nothing when you''re playing!" He threw his arms wide as if to chase the seriousness away, his enthusiasm infectious. Cleo hesitated, clutching his father''s leg for a moment longer before a small smile broke across his face, followed by a quiet giggle.


    Moments like these made the chaos of Whitechapel feel distant—though some shadows, once cast, cannot be escaped.


    ***


    The scent of sizzling potatoes filled the small home as Lorelei stood at the stove, flipping the mixture of mashed potatoes and cabbage in a heavy pan. "Bubble and Squeak," she announced with a playful flourish, her cheeks flushed from the heat of the fire. Arthur set the table, his large hands careful as he placed the mismatched plates in a neat row. Oakley leaned over the edge of the table, his nose wrinkling as he sniffed the air. "It smells burnt!" he declared with mock horror, earning a laugh from Cleo, who peeked over the table''s edge with wide eyes. Lorelei shot him a mock glare but couldn''t hide her smile. "If you don''t want any, I''ll be happy to eat your portion," she teased, dishing up the crispy, golden mixture.


    The family gathered around the table, enjoying their meal with contentment—lively banter filling the small room. Lorelei observed her children with a soft expression as Oakley gently teased his younger brother. Her heart swelled with a warmth that made the chaos of Whitechapel feel far away. For all the grime and chaos that defined their lives in Whitechapel, moments like these made everything else seem less important.


    As the last of the food was cleared away, Oakley''s face grew serious. He slipped from his chair and hurried over to the small corner of the room where he''d hidden his gift—a sprig of lavender. The boy''s heart raced, but his determination outweighed any nervousness he felt. He approached his mother, presenting the lavender to her with a shy smile—his palms were clammy, and his fingers trembled slightly as he held out the lavender, the petals soft against his skin.


    "Happy Birthday, Ma," he spoke softly, his eyes staring up at her with nervous pride. The corners of Lorelei''s mouth curled into an appreciative smile as she reached for the sprig, her fingers brushing his. Lorelei''s gaze softened as she tucked the lavender behind her ear, the soft scent filling the space between them. She kissed Oakley''s forehead gently, her voice thick with emotion as she whispered, "Thank you, my love."


    Oakley sat back down in his seat, his gaze encouraging as he nudged his brother with a quiet smile. Cleo, eyes glued to the floor, slowly slid off his chair. Lorelei''s gentle hand rested on his shoulder, her touch a quiet reassurance as he struggled to pull out the unevenly folded parchment paper from his back pocket. His small hands trembled slightly, but his determination was clear, even if it was hidden behind his bashful demeanor.You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.


    Lorelei smiled warmly at him, her words soft and sweet, "Take your time, my little one. It''s perfect, whatever it is." The woman gently scratched near her ear where the lavender was placed. Cleo slipped the parchment paper into his mother''s grasp, his gaze meeting her hands sheepishly as she unfolded it with careful expertise. A quiet moment passed before she looked up, her eyes softened with understanding and love, a smile tugging at her lips.


    Lorelei often hummed a tune while gazing out the window while Cleo''s older brother, Oakley, played with his father. What she held before her was a heartwarming encapsulation of the moment made from charcoal. She must''ve been standing there for a moment to have given Cleo the opportunity.


    Cleo''s gaze shone with quiet joy, his eyes beginning to shimmer with unshed tears as he watched his mother''s expression soften. Lorelei refolded the charcoal drawing, sliding it onto the table before picking up her youngest son, allowing him to wrap his arms around her neck. An unspoken understanding between the two. The pair stayed like this for a moment, wrapped in the quiet comfort of each other''s presence. Slowly, Cleo pulled back, his small hands gently slipping from around his mother''s neck. He climbed back into his seat—for once, the boy''s usually blank expression softened into a rare, gentle smile, his eyes bright with unspoken gratitude.


    ***


    The family shared quiet laughter as they cleaned up after dinner, the sound of Cleo''s gentle giggles and Oakley''s teasing filling the room. Lorelei, always the heart of their home, hummed softly as she tidied the table, the scent of lavender now mingling with the warm smell of the meal. A large comforting hand met her shoulder, causing a smirk to tug at her lips.


    "I couldn''t help but notice," a fake condescending tone could be heard, "You didn''t present your gift at the table." Turning towards Arthur, her mouth opened to speak before a small gasp replaced her train of thought. Her view was taken up by the man standing in front of her, his fingers fidgeting with a small golden ring.


    "Lorelei Benette," Arthur began to lower himself onto one knee, "Will you do me the honor—"


    "Mama!" Oakley met at her hip, giggling excitedly with Cleo by his side—earning a sigh from Arthur, though a small smile tugging at his lips. Lorelei coughed harshly in response, her eyebrows furrowed as she delicately touched the side of her head where the sprig of lavender lay.


    "Ar—" Lorelei''s breath hitched before she could finish, her hand flying to her throat. Her wide eyes darted around the room, a silent plea for help etched in her expression. "I—" she tried again, her voice a broken rasp, before clutching Arthur''s broad shoulder with trembling fingers.


    Oakley stared, confusion rooting him in place as a small hand gripped his own. Cleo clung to his older brother, burying his face into Oakley''s back. His muffled voice quivered, "Mama, you''re scaring Cleo..."


    "Boys, go to your room," Arthur barked, his voice tight with barely restrained panic. His eyes stayed fixed on Lorelei as she staggered.


    But Oakley couldn''t move. His legs felt like lead, his mind spiraling as the scene unfolded.


    "Mama, you''re—" His words dissolved into silence as she dropped to her knees with a sickening thud. Her hands clawed at her throat, her breaths coming in desperate, rasping gasps. Arthur caught her as she fell, lowering her gently to the floor, his voice rising in frantic shouts that seemed to come from a great distance.


    Oakley''s world blurred. His father''s mouth moved, wide and desperate, but the sounds felt muffled, like they were underwater. Only his mother''s gasps cut through the haze—ragged, unnatural, and terrifying.


    Angry red blotches spread across her neck and face, her lips swelling grotesquely. Her skin darkened as her breathing grew fainter, each shallow gasp weaker than the last. Oakley''s wide eyes stayed locked on her, unblinking.


    Why can''t I move...?


    Why does Mama sound like that?


    Why is Papa so scared...?


    His thoughts tumbled over each other in frantic confusion. This wasn''t real. It couldn''t be real.


    She''s just playing again... Mama likes to play...


    She was okay this morning... She''s just being silly...


    Even as her chest stilled, even as her unblinking eyes stared at the ceiling, Oakley''s mind clung to his desperate optimism. It was only when Cleo let go of his hand and ran to their mother''s body, wailing incoherently, that the truth began to seep in.


    Oakley''s gaze dropped to the small sprig of lavender lying on the floor near her hand. The petals, delicate and soft, mocked him with their innocence.


    "I didn''t mean to..." His voice cracked, barely more than a whisper. His trembling fingers reached toward her, then stopped. His knees buckled, and he sank to the floor.


    "Mama..." The word was a broken sob, heavy with guilt and disbelief.


    End of Prologue