The air in Whitechapel remained unchanged in the decade since Lorelei''s death—a mixture of grit and resilience, marked by the ever-present shouts of merchants, the rhythmic clang of blacksmiths at work, and the laughter of children weaving through it all. The boy who once gifted his mother a sprig of lavender had grown into a man, though the weight of that moment lingered with him still. He went by Gale now—a name he chose for reasons even he wasn''t entirely sure of—perhaps as a way to distance himself from the past.


    Gale moved briskly through the crowded marketplace, his jaw tight and his eyes fixed ahead. He had long avoided places where lavender might bloom, the sight or scent enough to send memories flooding back. Yet today, necessity outweighed his aversion. Arthur had sent him out to gather food for supper, and rare though the task was, Gale knew better than to argue.


    The man''s grip tightened on the leather pouch containing Arthur''s meager coins. As he maneuvered through the crowd of shoppers, the air buzzed with haggling voices and the aroma of spiced meats. He approached a stall laden with vegetables, the vendor—a stout woman with kind eyes—greeting him with a nod.


    "Carrots and potatoes," Gale muttered, his voice gruff. The vendor''s practiced hands swiftly weighed the produce.


    "Three pence, sir," she said, her eyes lingering on his worn cloak.


    Gale counted the counts, his thoughts drifting to Lorelei as he handed them over—the smell of fresh herbs transporting him to simpler times. He suppressed a sigh, accepting the parcel of vegetables.


    Moving on, he found himself before the butcher''s stand. The butcher, a burly man with a scar across his cheek, raised an eyebrow at Gale''s approach. "What''ll it be, kid?"


    "Half a pound of mutton," Gale replied, his tone devoid of warmth.


    As the butcher wrapped the meat, Gale''s eyes caught sight of a bundle of lavender nearby. He quickly averted his gaze, focusing on the task at hand.


    With his purchases secured, Gale made his way through the bustling market, each step a reminder of the burden he carried.


    Cleo was the first thing Gale saw when he entered the house. The young man sat cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by scattered drawings that looked as chaotic as his state of mind.


    "Cleo," Gale said softly, unwrapping the parcels in his hands. The boy flinched, startled, his charcoal pencil hovering over the paper. "Have you eaten?"


    Cleo blinked at him, then shrugged toward the untouched bowl of bread at his side.


    "Busy," he mumbled, bending back to his work.


    Gale sighed, stepping closer. "You can''t draw on an empty stomach, Cleo."


    "Can," came the sharp reply, Cleo''s head snapping up to meet Gale''s gaze.


    "Can''t," Gale countered, dropping to a crouch and reaching for the scattered sketches. His jaw tightened as his fingers brushed against the smudged charcoal lines of their mother''s face, over and over again. She stared back at him from every page, her eyes too vivid, her smile too real.


    "You know Arthur doesn''t like seeing this," Gale muttered, his voice strained as he began stacking the drawings neatly. "You need to be more mindful."


    Cleo sucked his teeth, jabbing his pencil toward the back door where the clanging of the blacksmith''s hammer echoed faintly.


    Gale exhaled sharply, shaking his head. "Okay, fine. I get it. But God forbid he walks in one day and sees you doing this crap."


    Cleo''s face twisted in offense, his hands curling into fists as he stood abruptly. Gale looked up, startled by the sudden motion, but before he could speak, Cleo turned on his heel and stormed off.


    The slam of his door rattled the walls.


    Gale sat back on his heels, staring at the uneven stack of sketches in his hands. "You know what I meant, kid," he muttered to the empty room.


    Arthur barged in as Gale was setting the table—for two, oddly enough—his father''s face slick with sweat. He approached Gale, setting down a letter that''s seen better days.


    "What''s that?" Gale questioned.


    "Don''t play coy with me, boy."


    "It''s a letter. What more do you want from me?"


    His father grabbed his son by the collar, pulling Gale towards him. The man was seething with rage as he stared down at him. "Read it," he ordered, shoving Gale away from him.The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.


    "No, Arthur," he snapped back


    "And why the hell not?"


    "I''ve read it already."


    ***


    "Eviction notice," Lorelei said, sliding the parchment across the table to Arthur. Her voice was steady, but Gale remembered how her hands trembled when she let go of the paper. He had been no older than eight, tucked into a chair in the corner, the edges of his worn boots not quite reaching the floor. He didn''t understand the words then, but he remembered the silence that followed, as though even the walls were holding their breath.


    "We''ll just ask him—" Arthur began, his tone almost pleading.


    "Absolutely not!" Lorelei whispered harshly, her voice slicing through the stillness. She snatched up the paper again, her hands tightening around its edges. "I said no."


    "We can''t lose this place, Lorelei," Arthur said, his voice soft but desperate. "For Gale. For Cleo."


    "And you think he would help? Don''t be ridiculous." She turned sharply toward the window, as if the shadows beyond might offer an answer. "We''ve made it this far without him. We''ll manage."


    Gale swung his legs beneath the chair, watching the way his mother''s back stiffened as she stood. He didn''t understand what she meant, but the air in the room felt heavy, like the weight of the words they weren''t saying. The faint smell of damp wood mingled with the dying fire''s heat, making his throat feel tight.


    Years later, Gale would still remember that night—the parchment, the trembling hands, and the name that wasn''t spoken aloud but seemed to echo in the silence nonetheless.


    ***


    "Do you want to lose this house?" Arthur questioned harshly.


    "I just think that—" the man exhaled sharply, "It''s been a decade and we''re still... here and—"


    "You''re tellin'' me..." Arthur spoke through clenched teeth, "You ain''t pay the bill on purpose?"


    Gale''s gaze fixated on the table before him, unresponsive—flinching his father stepped closer.


    "I gave you a responsibility," Arthur reminded, "I said—"


    "Cleo''s needed some things," Gale spoke abruptly, "You know how the boy gets when he can''t draw..."


    Saying this earned a scowl from Arthur as he leaned down to his son''s ear, "You pay the damn bill, boy," a pause, "Your mother gave everything she couldn''t for this house and you''re sure as hell not about to disgrace her..."


    "Yes, sir," Gale responded, shuddering as the man walked away from him—his father''s heavy steps echoing in his mind. His gaze met the letter of notice on the table.


    All of this over 25 shillings...


    The man sighed as he headed for the front door of his home, grabbing his weathered cloak and clasping it around his neck.


    Gale wandered the streets of Whitechapel for the majority of the evening, stopping into a tavern for an hour or two. He wouldn''t call himself a heavy drinker, but the third pitcher was starting to make the world feel a little less sharp. The woman serving him might have disagreed, but that didn''t matter. A man slid onto the stool beside him, earning a "Cheers, lad" from Gale.


    "Do you, uhm, happen to know any blacksmiths in the area?" the man asked, his voice tinged with uncertainty. Gale turned towards him, an eyebrow raised.


    "Now why''s someone like you asking for a blacksmith in Whitechapel?" Gale chuckled low, his gaze flicking over the stranger. The man shifted uncomfortably, his freckled cheeks flushed under Gale''s scrutiny. He was tall, even while sitting, his blond hair slicked back neatly—too neat for the usual clientele in this part of town.


    "I... owe someone a favor," the man admitted, tucking a stray hair behind his pointed ear.


    "ú-chebin na-vedui in penniath lin?" Gale inquired in Sindarin—a common tongue between Elven folk.


    The man''s eyes widened, a scoff of disbelief passing his lips. "John," he said simply, offering his hand.


    Gale stared unblinking at John, his expression unreadable. It stayed like this for a moment or two before he firmly grasped the hand being offered to him. "Gale."


    "Pleasure," John replied.


    "Now what exactly is it you want?" Gale''s grip tightened as he spoke.


    "St. James," John said quickly.


    "What of it?" Gale''s tone was sharp, his fingers pressing harder.


    "I—" John winced, his free hand twitching toward Gale''s arm. "I need someone there. For business."


    "What kind?"


    "I can''t say..."


    "Bullshit. What kind, John?" Gale demanded.


    The woman who had served him earlier strode over, her apron swaying with each determined step. "Gale," she barked, hands on her hips. "Don''t start trouble here. Take it outside."


    The pair exited the tavern, Gale muttering curses under his breath as John trailed behind, his steps hesitant.


    "I can''t tell you why, but—"


    "But what?" Gale snapped, whirling to face him. "What could you possibly say that would make me care, John?"


    "You''d be compensated," John said carefully, his voice low. "Generously."


    Gale scoffed, his glare cutting through the Elven''s composure. "And why the hell do you think I''d care—"


    "Eviction notice."


    The words landed like a blow. Gale''s jaw tightened as he slowly met John''s gaze, his glare hardening. John pressed on quickly, his words tumbling out. "Open a shop in St. James. I''ve already arranged housing."


    "My family—" Gale began, his voice rough.


    "Will be taken care of," John interrupted, his tone insistent. "Everything they need. All you have to do is say yes."


    End of Chapter I