Mid 1937, Stepney

The sky was heavy with rain, the steady downpour soaking the streets and turning the cobblestones slick underfoot. Leonard’s coat was damp, and the water dripped from the brim of his cap as he made his way through the bustling streets of London. The rain seemed to cast a grey pall over everything, but the people around him paid it little mind, hurrying on with their business, heads down, umbrellas up, indifferent to the cold wetness that seeped into their clothes.

As Leonard turned onto a familiar street, he heard the unmistakable sound of shouting over the steady patter of rain. The noise grew louder as he approached, cutting through the dreary monotony of the afternoon. Most of the passersby barely glanced in the direction of the commotion, their faces set in determined lines, as if willing themselves to ignore the voices that clamoured about the greatness of Britain and the dangers that lurked in its midst.

Leonard slowed his pace, his curiosity piqued despite the discomfort of the rain. He cautiously moved toward the source of the noise, where a group of men had gathered in the square, undeterred by the downpour. Their black shirts clung to their bodies, soaked through but still proudly displaying the symbols of the British Union of Fascists. The rain seemed only to add to the intensity of their shouts, the water running in rivulets down their determined faces.

“Britain for the British!” one of the men roared, his voice rising above the rain. “We demand a strong, united nation, free from foreign influence!”

“End the Jewish control of our banks and businesses!” another man bellowed, shaking his fist as the crowd responded with a cheer. “No more foreigners stealing our jobs and our homes!”

Leonard lingered at the edge of the crowd, his heart pounding. He had seen and heard about these rallies before, but witnessing one up close, with the rain adding an almost surreal quality to the scene, made the anger and hatred in their voices feel even more visceral.

The people on the street continued to walk by, indifferent to the shouting, their expressions blank, as if none of this concerned them. To them, it seemed, the rain and the routine of their daily lives were more pressing than the fervent demands of the men in the square.

But Leonard couldn’t shake the feeling of unease that settled in his gut. The men’s shouts, though ignored by many, rang loudly in his ears. “We need a leader who will put Britain first!” one man yelled. “A leader who won’t bow to the weak and the foreign!”

“March on!” another voice joined in. “We’ll take back our streets, our country—no more being pushed around!” He heard snippets of conversation among the men, discussing the Japanese invasion of China and how it was only a matter of time before Europe was drawn into a similar conflict. “The Japs are showing the world how it’s done,” one man said, his voice tinged with admiration. “We need to be ready, or we’ll be next.”

Leonard’s mind raced as he listened, the words swirling around him like a storm. He had read about the invasion in the newspapers, about the atrocities committed in cities like Nanking, and he knew the looming threat that hung over Europe like a dark cloud.

He felt helpless in the face of it all—helpless and numb. What could a 10-year-old boy possibly do in the face of such hatred and violence? The world seemed to be spinning out of control, and Leonard was just a small, insignificant part of it. The weight of the future pressed down on him, making it hard to breathe. He took a deep breath, forcing himself to turn away from the square, and continued on his way home, the shouts of the fascists fading into the background as he walked.

As he made his way through the familiar streets of Stepney, Leonard couldn’t shake the feeling that something terrible was coming—something that would change everything.

By the end of December 1937, a cold, biting wind had settled over London, cutting through the streets of Stepney and seeping into the cracks of the Harringtons’ small flat. The city, draped in a thin layer of frost, seemed to mirror the growing despair within the walls of their home.

Edward Harrington’s health had taken a sharp turn for the worse. His once-strong frame, already weakened by his injury, had deteriorated further over the past few months. He spent most of his days confined to a chair, his body wracked with pain that no amount of cheap whiskey could numb. The cough that had started as a mere annoyance had grown deeper, more violent, rattling his chest with every breath. It left him exhausted, sallow-skinned and hollow-eyed.

Leonard had noticed, despite his mother’s best efforts to hide it, that there were often traces of blood in the handkerchiefs she used to care for Edward. She would quickly tuck them away, her face a mask of stoic concern, but Leonard had seen enough to understand that his father’s condition was far worse than anyone was willing to admit. The sight of those blood-streaked handkerchiefs haunted him, a grim reminder of how little time might be left.

Leonard could see the toll it was taking on his mother. Margaret had always been the pillar of their family, but even her resilience was beginning to crack. The dark circles under her eyes betrayed the sleepless nights spent tending to her husband, and the way she moved—slowly, almost mechanically—spoke of a weariness that went beyond physical exhaustion. She rarely smiled now, and when she did, it was a brief, hollow thing, gone as quickly as it appeared.

Thomas, Leonard’s older brother, had also been home more often than usual. Despite his promotion to foreman at the docks earlier in the year, work had been slow. The winter weather had hampered operations, and there were fewer shipments to manage. The promotion, which had initially seemed like a blessing, now felt more like a cruel joke. With less work, there was less money coming in, and the promotion’s pay increase wasn’t enough to offset the decrease in hours.

Leonard often found Thomas sitting in the kitchen during the day, staring out the window with a distant look in his eyes. The wear and tear of the docks had aged him beyond his years, and there was a heaviness to him now, a quiet frustration that simmered just beneath the surface. He wasn’t the lively, quick-to-smile brother Leonard had known. Instead, he had become withdrawn, his rare attempts at conversation short and clipped.

“It’s just the weather,” Thomas would say when Leonard asked why he was home so much. “Not much work to go around when the Thames is half-frozen.”

But Leonard knew it was more than just the weather. He could see it in the way Thomas’s hands trembled slightly when he thought no one was watching, and in the way he lingered in the hallway outside their father’s room, as if hoping to hear some sign of improvement that never came.

Christmas came and went with little fanfare. The family shared a simple meal, the air heavy with unspoken worries. Edward’s cough had kept him from the table, leaving an empty chair that seemed to loom over the room like a dark cloud. Margaret had tried to keep the conversation light, asking Thomas about work and Leonard about school, but the answers were brief, the silences that followed too long.

Leonard couldn’t shake the feeling that they were all waiting for something—some inevitable, terrible thing that hung over them like the winter sky, grey and oppressive. The cold seemed to creep into every corner of their lives, chilling their hearts as much as their bodies.

Leonard found himself spending more time alone, lost in thought. He couldn’t remember the last time he had heard his father laugh or seen his mother’s eyes light up with genuine happiness. The streets outside were no better. The winter had brought with it an air of desperation, a sense that the city itself was struggling to survive. The festive lights strung across the streets seemed out of place, their cheerfulness a stark contrast to the reality of the lives they illuminated.

Leonard walked home from school one afternoon, the cold biting at his cheeks, and passed by a group of men huddled around a small fire in an alley. They didn’t speak, didn’t even look up as he passed; they simply stared into the flames, their faces gaunt and tired, as if the fire was the only thing keeping them tethered to the world.

The image stayed with him as he reached his front door, and as he stepped inside, the warmth of the flat did little to chase away the chill that had settled in his bones. He found Thomas sitting at the kitchen table, staring at the same spot out the window where Leonard had found him countless times before.

Leonard hesitated in the doorway, the words he wanted to say caught in his throat. But Thomas didn’t turn, didn’t even acknowledge his presence, lost in his own thoughts. Leonard sighed and moved past him, heading for his room, feeling the weight of the day pressing down on him.

That night, as Leonard lay in bed, he found it difficult to sleep. The familiar sound of his father’s cough echoed through the flat, a harsh reminder of the fragility of their lives. But tonight, there was something else that kept him awake—a tension in the air that he couldn’t quite place.

He turned over, pulling the blanket tighter around himself, and tried to focus on the steady rhythm of his breathing, hoping it would lull him into sleep. But then he heard it—soft voices, coming from the kitchen. His mother and siblings were talking, their tones hushed, as if they were trying not to wake him. Leonard’s curiosity got the better of him, and he quietly sat up, straining to hear the conversation. What he heard made his blood run cold.

“I don’t know what to do,” Beatrice’s voice trembled with barely contained fear. “I’m with child.”

There was a pregnant silence that followed her words, so heavy that Leonard could feel it pressing down on him from across the room. He hadn’t noticed it before, but now that she said it, he remembered seeing her grow chubbier over the past few weeks. He had thought nothing of it at the time, but now it made sense—a terrible, inescapable sense.

“Oh, Beatrice…” Margaret’s voice was filled with sorrow and worry. Leonard could imagine the pain etched on her face, the way she must be looking at her daughter with a mix of disbelief and concern.

Beatrice’s breath hitched, and Leonard could hear the tears in her voice as she continued. “I was so sure, Mum… so sure that Arthur would rise to the task, that he’d take care of us. I thought he loved me, that he’d stand by me no matter what. But I was wrong—so terribly wrong. He said he couldn’t give up his career for me, that it was too much to ask. I shouldn’t have been this stupid.”

Margaret’s voice softened, though the strain was evident. “How many months, Beatrice? How long?”

“Three months,” Beatrice whispered, her voice cracking. “The head maid found out, or maybe Arthur told her—I don’t know. But when she inspected me, she could tell right away. It’s showing, Mum. I’m going to lose my job, and then what will we do?”

The quiet sobs that followed tore at Leonard’s heart. He had never heard his sister cry like this before, and it made him feel small and powerless. He wanted to get up, to go to her, to do something—anything—to make it better, but he knew there was nothing he could do.

“What will we do?” Beatrice’s voice broke the silence again, barely more than a whisper now.

“We’ll figure something out,” Thomas said, his voice steady but strained. “We’ll get through this. We always do.”

Leonard could hear his mother moving, likely reaching out to comfort Beatrice. “You’re not alone in this, love. We’ll find a way, somehow.”

The room fell silent again, the only sound the muffled sobs of Beatrice and the soft reassurances of her family. But then, cutting through the quiet like a knife, came the harsh, violent coughing from Edward’s room. It was a sound that had become all too familiar, yet each time it happened, it seemed to carry with it the weight of impending doom.

“They mustn’t know,” Margaret said quickly, her voice low and urgent. “Your father mustn’t find out. He’s already too ill… we can’t burden him with this. We’ll handle it ourselves, as a family.”

Leonard lay back down, his heart heavy with the weight of what he had just overheard.

For the Harrington family, the passing of the seasons brought little relief. By March of 1938, the strain on their household had reached a breaking point. The year had begun with little promise, and each passing day seemed to bring more hardship.

Thomas was still home more often than not. Despite his promotion, the work at the docks had slowed to a trickle, leaving him with too much time and too little to do. The family’s situation grew more dire with each passing day, and it showed in their father’s condition. Edward’s frame had wasted away, reduced to little more than skin and bone. The deep, violent coughs that wracked his body had become a constant presence in their home, a grim reminder of his deteriorating health.

Leonard had noticed the way his mother would turn her face away when Edward’s handkerchiefs came back stained with blood. As the months dragged on, Margaret stopped caring if anyone noticed. She moved through the days with a numbness that frightened Leonard more than anything. It was as if the life had been drained out of her, leaving behind only the shell of the woman who had once been the pillar of their home.

Beatrice’s pregnancy was now painfully obvious, her belly swollen with the life growing inside her. Yet within the family, it was as if the pregnancy didn’t exist. No one mentioned it, not even in passing. The sight of her growing belly was impossible to ignore, but it seemed that everyone was too afraid, too overwhelmed, to bridge the subject. Even their father, whose sharp eyes missed little despite his failing health, kept quiet about it, as if acknowledging the reality would somehow make it worse.

Beatrice had stopped going out much. She stayed home with their mother, helping with laundry, stitching, and weaving, doing what little work they could find to keep the family afloat. The burden of her situation hung over her like a dark cloud, and though everyone could see it, no one dared to say a word.

But the money they made was never enough. Leonard saw how their meals had become sparser, the pots on the stove filled with watered-down broths or stews that were more liquid than substance. He couldn’t remember the last time they had proper meat. The occasional scraps of bacon or bits of sausage they used to flavour their meals had long since disappeared. Now, it was just bones boiled for hours until the last vestiges of flavour were wrung out, mixed with a handful of wilted vegetables or stale bread to create something that resembled food.

The hunger gnawed at Leonard constantly, a dull ache in his belly that never quite went away. He had learned to ration his portions, deliberately taking less so that Beatrice could have more. She needed it, he told himself—needed it for the baby.

Nights were the worst. Leonard would lie in bed, the thin blanket barely providing warmth, listening to the sounds of the flat settling into silence. His stomach would rumble, the emptiness inside him a constant companion. His mother’s face was lined with worry, her hands rough and chapped from the constant work. Beatrice’s once smooth skin had taken on a pallor, her eyes often distant as she went about her tasks in silence. Even Thomas, who had always been the strong one, seemed defeated, his shoulders slumped as if the weight of the world had finally broken him.

In the rare moments of conversation, the family would speak in hushed tones, careful not to disturb Edward, whose health had become so fragile that even the smallest noise seemed to aggravate his condition. They talked of little things—the weather, the news they heard from the radio, the odd jobs they managed to find. But they never spoke of the future, as if the very thought of it was too overwhelming to consider.

The world outside their flat continued to turn, with news of Germany’s increasing aggression and the growing tension in Europe reaching even the poorest corners of London. But for the Harringtons, the wider world seemed distant, irrelevant compared to the immediate struggle for survival. The war they fought was a different kind of battle—a battle against hunger, against despair, against the slow, creeping realization that they were losing.

Leonard tried to keep his spirits up, tried to focus on his studies and the books he borrowed from the library. But even those small pleasures were tinged with a sense of guilt. How could he lose himself in stories when his family was suffering so much? How could he think of anything but the hunger, the cold, the relentless pressure of poverty that surrounded them?

Ever since that day in 1935 when Billy tripped him in the mess hall, Leonard had felt a strange power stirring within him—a force that seemed to come alive in moments of strong emotion. At first, it had been elusive, something he could barely grasp, like a whisper on the edge of his consciousness. But as the years passed, he began to sense it more clearly, particularly in moments of distress or anger.

The power was strongest when Leonard witnessed the bullying at school, especially when he saw other children, often weaker or different, being ganged up on by those stronger or crueler. The sight of such cruelty made something inside him flare up, a raw energy that surged through his veins, begging to be unleashed. It was as though the power was calling out to him, offering him the means to change things, to make a difference in a world that seemed increasingly helpless and harsh.

One such moment came when David Cohen, was cornered by a group of boys in the schoolyard. Leonard watched from a distance, feeling that familiar surge of power rise within him as he saw David being shoved roughly. One of the boys pushed David hard enough that he fell to the ground, his glasses flying off his face and landing with a sickening crunch beneath a boot. The shards of glass glittered on the ground.

In that moment, he knew he could do something. He could feel the power thrumming through him, almost as if it were begging to be used. A part of him wanted to lash out; to make those boys feel the same pain they were inflicting on David. He imagined the wind whipping through the courtyard, strong enough to knock the bullies off their feet, or perhaps the very ground beneath them trembling with his anger. The power was there, right at his fingertips, ready to be unleashed.

But then, something in Leonard hesitated. He forced the power back down, taking deep breaths to steady himself. He couldn’t allow himself to lose control, not here, not now. He had learned to manage the power over the years, practicing his breathing exercises whenever he felt it rise within him. He had some control over it, enough to make small things happen—a leaf being carried away by a gust of wind, or an object changing colour briefly, as if touched by an invisible hand. But these were minor, subtle things, nothing that would draw attention or seem out of the ordinary.

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Leonard walked over to where David was struggling to get up, the remnants of his broken glasses scattered around him. The bullies had already moved on, their laughter echoing in the distance. Leonard knelt down and reached out a hand to help David, but the boy pushed it away, his eyes filled with tears.

Leonard didn’t say anything. He didn’t mention the tears, didn’t push further. He simply gathered the pieces of the broken glasses and handed them to David, who took them silently, his hands trembling.

The power inside Leonard ebbed away, leaving behind a hollow feeling in its wake. He had made the choice to force it back down, to keep it under control, but a part of him couldn’t help but wonder what might have happened if he had let it loose. Would it have changed anything? Would it have made things better, or worse?

People saw Leonard as he was - a quiet, introspective child of poor circumstances, perhaps too smart for his own good, but nothing more. Sometimes, Leonard wondered if this power was even real, or if it was just a figment of his imagination—a way for him to cope with the immense defeat he felt at times.

As the days turned into weeks, Leonard continued to navigate the grim realities of life in Stepney, the weight of his family’s struggles ever-present. He was aware of the ominous changes in the world beyond their small flat, news of Hitler’s annexation of Austria and the whispers of another war. Yet for Leonard, these distant events only added to his sense of numbness and powerlessness.

It was the end of April, and the early morning was marked by the soft patter of rain against the windows. Leonard lay in bed, his eyes closed, but not asleep. The familiar sound of the rain, usually soothing, felt different today—more insistent, as if it were trying to tell him something. He remained still, focusing on his breathing, trying to still his mind and gather his memories as he often did in these quiet moments before the day began.

Normally, at this hour, he would hear his father’s deep, hacking coughs echoing through the flat, a sound that had become as much a part of the morning as the rain. But today, there was nothing—just the rhythmic splattering of the rain against the glass. Leonard opened his eyes, a creeping unease settling over him as he realized the silence was wrong, unsettling in its completeness.

He stayed in bed, listening intently, his senses heightened. The flat was unusually quiet, the kind of quiet that made his skin prickle with a sense of foreboding. His siblings were still asleep, their soft breaths the only other sound in the room. Leonard tried to push away the unease, telling himself that maybe his father was simply too tired to cough this morning. Maybe, just this once, he was getting some rest.

But then he heard it—his mother’s voice, faint at first, as if she were speaking to someone. “Edward, wake up. It’s morning… I’ll make us some breakfast,” she said, her tone gentle, as it always was when she spoke to him in the mornings.

Leonard’s heart began to race as he strained to hear more. There was a brief pause, then his mother’s voice again, this time slightly louder, more insistent. “Edward, stop playing around. Come on, you need to get up.”

The unease in Leonard’s chest deepened. He could hear the tension creeping into his mother’s voice, the way it wavered as if she were trying to hold on to some semblance of normalcy. But the silence that followed her words was deafening.

A moment later, her voice broke through again, this time louder, tinged with desperation. “Edward! Edward, get up!”

Leonard could hear the panic now, the way her words cracked as she spoke, followed by a long, heavy silence. He held his breath, waiting, hoping to hear his father’s voice, a cough, anything. But all that came was a heart-wrenching sob, muffled at first, but then growing louder, more frantic.

He heard the creaking of the bed next to him as Beatrice began to stir, the difficulty of her movement evident in the soft groan she let out. She was heavily pregnant now, and every movement seemed to take so much out of her. “What’s going on?” she murmured, more to herself than anyone else, as she slowly pushed herself upright.

But Leonard already knew. Without being there, without seeing, he knew what had happened. His father had passed on. The realization hit him like a blow to the chest, knocking the air out of him, but it wasn’t a surprise—it was the culmination of everything they had feared for so long.

As he stood there, rooted in place, Leonard couldn’t help but reflect on the years that had passed since he had found himself in this new life. He would have been lying if he said he hadn’t cared for his new family. They could never replace the family he had once known, the family lost to time and circumstance, but in these 11 years, the Harringtons had become his world. They loved him deeply, despite the hardships they all endured together. He had seen it in the way his mother, Margaret, had sacrificed everything to keep the family afloat, in the way his father, Edward, had tried to remain strong for as long as he could, and in the way his siblings had always looked out for him, even when their own burdens seemed too heavy to bear.

Now, standing in the doorway of his parents' bedroom, the reality of his father’s death settled heavily on his shoulders. Edward Harrington was gone, and with him, another thread that tied Leonard to this life was severed.

Inside, his mother was kneeling by the bed, her face buried in her hands as she sobbed uncontrollably. Beatrice had followed, standing in the doorway, one hand resting on the swell of her belly, her face pale and stricken. Leonard’s eyes moved to the bed, where his father lay.

Edward Harrington was still, his face peaceful in a way Leonard hadn’t seen in years. The lines of pain and worry that had marked his features were smoothed away, leaving him looking almost serene, as if he were simply asleep. Leonard stood there, rooted to the spot, staring at his father’s body. A part of him had expected this, had known it was coming, but it didn’t make the reality of it any easier to bear. The man who had once been the strong, commanding presence in their lives was now gone, leaving behind only the hollow shell of who he had been.

The rain continued to splatter against the windows, its rhythm the only sound in the room besides his mother’s sobs. Leonard felt a tear slip down his cheek, but he didn’t wipe it away. Instead, he stepped forward, moving quietly to his mother’s side, and placed a hand on her shoulder, offering what little comfort he could in a moment where there seemed to be none.

Leonard stood by the door; his heart heavy with the weight of what had just transpired. His mother, Margaret, sat on the edge of the bed, her face buried in her hands as sobs wracked her body. The room was filled with a suffocating silence, broken only by her quiet weeping.

“You don’t have to go to school today, Leonard,” she managed between sobs, her voice trembling. “Stay home with us… please.”

Leonard looked at her, his own emotions swirling in a tumultuous mix of grief and helplessness. Part of him wanted to stay, to be there for his mother and siblings in this time of sorrow. But another part of him knew that staying would only make the pain more unbearable. School might be pointless today—after all, who would care if he showed up or not?—but it was an escape, a way to distract his mind from the crushing reality of his father’s death.

“No, Mum,” Leonard said quietly, his voice steady despite the turmoil inside him. “I need to go. It’s… it’s best if I keep my mind occupied. You know how it is—idle hands are the devil’s workshop.”

Margaret looked up at him, her eyes red and swollen, tears still streaming down her cheeks. There was a moment of understanding between them, a silent acknowledgment that Leonard’s way of coping was different, that he needed to get away, if only for a few hours. She nodded, unable to speak, and Leonard gave her a small, sad smile before turning to leave.

As he walked down the narrow, creaking stairs of their building, Leonard tried to push the morning’s events to the back of his mind.

Halfway down the stairs, he saw Miss Edwards standing in the hallway, leaning against the wall with a cigarette dangling from her lips. Time had not been kind to her; her once vibrant appearance had withered, and the lines of hardship were etched deeply into her face. Leonard noticed that the two girls who had always seemed to be in her flat were no longer around, and he wondered briefly where they had gone.

As Leonard continued down the stairs, a man brushed past him, moving with a certain swagger that seemed entirely out of place in this rundown building. The man wore a suit, the fabric cheap and slightly worn, but it was the kind of attire that tried too hard to impress. His hair was slicked back with too much pomade, and the overpowering scent of cheap cologne clung to him like a cloud. A nasty scar ran across his face, cutting through his stubbled cheek, giving him a menacing appearance that made Leonard uneasy.

The man paused at the bottom of the stairs, glancing up at Leonard with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. There was something predatory about the way he looked at him, something that sent a shiver down Leonard’s spine. The man’s presence was unsettling, and Leonard had no doubt that he was here for Miss Edwards, though he didn’t dare dwell on what that meant.

Despite the unease gnawing at him, Leonard offered the man a polite greeting, his voice steady. “Good morning, sir.”

The man’s smile widened, but it was a cold, calculating expression that made Leonard’s skin crawl. “Morning, lad,” he replied, his tone oily and insincere.

Leonard didn’t linger. He nodded respectfully and quickly made his way out of the building, eager to put as much distance between himself and the man as possible. As he stepped onto the rain-slicked street, the fresh air was a welcome relief from the oppressive atmosphere inside. He took a deep breath, trying to shake off the lingering sense of dread, and set off for school, hoping that the familiar routine would offer some refuge from the overwhelming sadness that had taken hold of his life.

Leonard remembered very little about the lessons that day. The words of his teachers washed over him, incomprehensible, as if they were spoken in a language he no longer understood. When the final bell rang, Leonard found himself hesitating at the gates, uncertain of where to go. The thought of returning home, to the suffocating grief that awaited him there, was unbearable. But the familiar comfort of the library, with Mrs. Thompson’s welcoming smile and the smell of old books, also seemed out of reach. He hadn’t been visiting the library as often since his sister Beatrice became pregnant. His free time was spent running errands for neighbours—anything that would bring in a few extra pennies. He would leave the coins on the kitchen table at home, never expecting thanks, and his mother never acknowledged them directly. But each day, the money would be gone, and Leonard knew, in the unspoken way that had become so common in their family, that she was grateful for every little bit.

Eventually, Leonard decided to make his way to the library, though his feet dragged as he walked. The usually comforting sight of the old stone building felt heavy, almost foreboding, as he approached. He paused at the door, considering turning back, but something pulled him inside. He needed a place to think, a place to escape, even if only for a little while.

As soon as Leonard stepped into the library, Mrs. Thompson looked up from her desk. Her keen eyes, softened by years of watching over the children who frequented the library, immediately noticed something was wrong. Leonard’s face, usually composed and focused, was drawn and pale, his eyes hollowed by grief.

“Leonard,” she called gently, concern lacing her voice. “What’s the matter, dear?”

He tried to force a smile, to pretend that everything was fine, but the effort crumbled before it could take hold. Mrs. Thompson didn’t wait for an answer; she quickly came around the desk and ushered him into a small side-room off the main library—a place she sometimes used as a makeshift kitchen, where she brewed tea and kept biscuits for the children who spent their afternoons buried in books.

The room was cozy, with a small table and a few mismatched chairs, and the faint scent of tea lingering in the air. Mrs. Thompson guided Leonard to a chair and handed him a cup of tea, the warmth of the cup seeping into his cold hands. She didn’t ask any more questions, didn’t press him to speak, but her presence was comforting, a gentle nudge that let him know it was safe to let down his guard.

It started with a tremble in his hands, barely noticeable at first, but then the dam broke. All the emotions Leonard had bottled up over the past few years came rushing out, a flood of grief, fear, and frustration that he could no longer contain. He put the cup down just in time before he broke down, his body shaking with sobs that he hadn’t even realized were there.

Mrs. Thompson didn’t say a word. She simply sat beside him, her hand resting lightly on his shoulder, offering silent support. There was no need for words—Leonard knew she understood, knew that she had seen enough children pass through her library to recognize the signs of a heart that had carried too much for too long.

The tears came in waves, each one pulling from him the fear of what was to come, the helplessness he felt in the face of a world teetering on the edge of war, and the unbearable loss of his father. He had tried so hard to be strong, to hold everything together for his family, to be the quiet pillar in a home that had been crumbling for years. But here, in the safety of this small room, with Mrs. Thompson by his side, he allowed himself to break.

When the tears finally subsided, leaving him feeling hollow and exhausted, they sat together in silence. The weight of the world felt slightly lighter now, the burden shared, even if only for a little while. Mrs. Thompson didn’t try to fill the silence with empty words of comfort; she simply let it be, understanding that sometimes, what was most needed was the presence of someone who cared.

Eventually, Leonard looked up at her, his eyes red and puffy, but calmer. She offered him a small, encouraging smile, one that told him she was there for him, whenever he needed.

“Thank you,” he whispered, his voice hoarse from crying.

Mrs. Thompson squeezed his shoulder gently. “You don’t have to thank me, Leonard. You’re always welcome here, no matter what.”

The sun was shining brightly as Leonard made his way home from the library, the warmth on his face a stark contrast to the cold emptiness he felt inside. He couldn’t help but find it cynical, almost mocking, that the world seemed so full of light and life while his own was crumbling to pieces. The heavens were laughing, it seemed—happy, even—as his family faced the bleak reality of loss and uncertainty.

When Leonard reached their flat, he hesitated for a moment at the door before pushing it open. The familiar creak of the hinges greeted him as he stepped inside, the smell of the place unchanged despite the weight of grief that now hung in the air. He noticed immediately that Thomas was home, sitting quietly in the small living room. His older brother looked calm, his face composed in a way that suggested the storm of emotions had already passed, perhaps cried out before Leonard had returned.

Margaret was sitting in her usual spot at the kitchen table, her hands folded in front of her, her eyes red and puffy. Beatrice was there too, sitting beside her with a hand resting on her swollen belly, her face drawn and weary. The room was thick with silence, the kind that comes after too many tears have been shed, when there’s nothing left to say but so much still needs to be done.

Leonard sat down quietly, joining the solemn gathering. He noticed the way his mother’s eyes flickered toward him briefly, as if checking to see if he was alright before returning to the task at hand—planning what needed to happen next.

“I’ve already called the coroner,” Margaret said, her voice barely more than a whisper, as if speaking louder might shatter the fragile calm that had settled over them. “They’ll be here soon… to take him.” The way she said “him” carried the weight of everything she couldn’t bring herself to articulate.

Thomas nodded slowly, his hands resting on the table, fingers drumming absently against the worn wood. “And after that? What do we do?” His voice was steady, but there was a note of weariness that echoed through the room.

“We’ll have to arrange the funeral,” Margaret replied, her gaze unfocused, staring down at the table. “There’s… there’s some money put aside, not much, but it should cover it. We’ll keep it simple. That’s what he would have wanted.”

Beatrice shifted in her seat; her discomfort obvious as she tried to find a more comfortable position. “I can help with the arrangements,” she offered, though there was an underlying exhaustion in her voice. “We’ll need to notify the parish… maybe Father O’Leary can say a few words.”

Margaret nodded, though her movements were slow, almost mechanical. “Yes, we’ll do that. But we’ll need to figure out what happens after… how we manage things… without him.” The reality of those words seemed to hang in the air, casting a long shadow over the room.

The meal was a solemn affair, the food plain and the portions small, but it was enough to sustain them. The only sound was the faint clicking of cutlery against the plates, a rhythm that filled the void left by their grief. Leonard remained quiet, as did the rest of his family, each of them lost in their own thoughts.

They finished eating quickly, the plates cleared away with little ceremony. Not long after the dishes were cleared, there was a knock at the door. Leonard’s mother rose slowly to answer it, her movements stiff with exhaustion. The coroner had arrived, a tall, thin man with a sombre expression that matched the gravity of his work. He wore a dark coat, buttoned up tightly against the chill of the evening, and a black bowler hat that seemed to cast a shadow over his already serious face. Behind him stood two strong men, both dressed in similar dark attire, their faces set in a grim determination. They were here for the task no one wanted to acknowledge, but which had to be done.

Margaret nodded to the coroner; her voice barely audible as she greeted him. “Thank you for coming.”

The coroner removed his hat and gave a respectful nod. “My condolences, Mrs. Harrington,” he said in a low voice, his tone professional yet not unkind. “We’ll take care of everything.”

Leonard watched as the men moved quietly into the flat, their heavy boots echoing on the wooden floor. He could feel the tension in the air, a mix of dread and inevitability. Margaret turned to Leonard and gently placed a hand on his shoulder.

“Go to your room, Leonard,” she said softly, though her voice carried a firmness that left no room for argument. “This isn’t something you need to see.”

Leonard nodded, understanding the unspoken request, and rose from his seat. As he walked toward his room, he glanced back one last time, catching a glimpse of the men as they moved toward his parents’ bedroom. The sight of them, their expressions resolute, made his stomach twist with anxiety. He knew what was about to happen, but it felt surreal, as if it were happening to someone else, in another life.

Once in his room, Leonard sat on the edge of his bed, his heart pounding in his chest. The muffled sounds of movement and hushed voices filtered through the walls, but he paid little mind to them. After what felt like an eternity, the noise outside his room quieted. Leonard heard the door to his parents’ bedroom open and close, followed by the heavy footsteps of the men as they carried out his father’s body.

The conversation that followed was brief, the coroner’s voice low and respectful as he spoke to Margaret, offering his condolences once more before taking his leave. There was talk of the funeral, of the arrangements that needed to be made, but Leonard didn’t try to catch the details. It all felt too distant, too unreal, like a bad dream he couldn’t wake from.

As the evening wore on, the sun began to set, casting long shadows across the room. The flat was eerily quiet now, the oppressive silence broken only by the occasional creak of the floorboards or the faint rustle of movement from the other rooms. Leonard felt the weight of the day pressing down on him, the exhaustion finally catching up to him.

The day of Edward Harrington's funeral was a grey, drizzly affair. The mid-May weather seemed to mirror the mood of the family—sombre and heavy, with a persistent rain that soaked through their clothes and chilled them to the bone. Leonard stood beside his mother and siblings; the small group huddled together under a shared umbrella as they watched the proceedings unfold.

Edward was to be buried, a simple wooden casket lowering into the earth—a final resting place in a small cemetery not far from their home. Leonard had never been to a funeral before, and as he watched the casket being lowered, it felt like he was observing everything from a distance, as if it were happening to someone else.

Father O’Leary stood at the head of the grave, his voice a steady murmur as he recited the final prayers. His words were calm and comforting, but they seemed to wash over Leonard without sinking in, as if his mind couldn’t fully grasp the gravity of the moment. The priest spoke of Edward’s life, his hard work, and the love he had for his family, drawing from the few details he knew, but to Leonard, it all felt disconnected—like stories from another time, another life.

Around them, a small gathering of mourners had assembled. There were more people than Leonard had anticipated—mostly dock workers, recognizable by their weathered faces and rough hands. Some were neighbours, people Leonard had seen in passing but never really known. They stood in solemn silence, their hats held in their hands, heads bowed against the rain. The Harringtons hadn’t been particularly active in the neighbourhood, especially after Edward’s injury, but the people had come anyway, paying their respects to a man who had once been a part of their community.

There was a lot of crying, particularly from his mother and Beatrice. Thomas, too, had tears in his eyes, though he tried to hide them. Leonard, however, found that he couldn’t cry. He had shed so many tears over the past weeks that there was nothing left. Instead, he felt a strange sense of relief, a feeling he knew he shouldn’t have but couldn’t shake. His father’s suffering was over, and in a way, that brought him a sense of closure. Perhaps now, they could begin to heal, to move forward, even if the path ahead was uncertain.

The rain continued to fall, a steady drizzle that soaked through their clothes and made the ground beneath them soft and muddy. Leonard’s mother looked frail, her face pale and gaunt, as if the grief had drained the life from her. She had barely eaten anything in the last two weeks, and Leonard worried that she might collapse under the weight of her sorrow. But she stood firm, clutching the rosary in her hands, her lips moving in silent prayer.

After the ceremony, there was a brief gathering at their home. It was a modest affair, as their financial situation allowed for little more. The guests, mostly the same dock workers and neighbours who had attended the funeral, came to offer their condolences. There was no grand meal—just a simple spread of bread, cheese, and tea, something warm to fend off the chill of the rain-soaked day. The food was sparse, but no one complained. They ate quietly, the atmosphere heavy with the weight of loss.

Leonard sat at the edge of the table, listening to the murmured conversations around him. The words were mostly kind, the neighbours sharing memories of Edward, speaking of his strength and dedication, but Leonard found it difficult to focus on what was being said. He felt detached, as if he were floating outside of his own body, watching everything unfold from a distance.

The gathering didn’t last long. The guests, respectful of the family’s grief, didn’t linger. One by one, they offered their final condolences and left, leaving the Harringtons alone once more in the quiet of their small, dimly lit flat. The rain continued to patter against the windows, a steady rhythm that filled the silence.

As the last guest closed the door behind them, Leonard looked around at his family. His mother sat quietly at the table, her hands still clasped around the rosary, her eyes staring blankly ahead. Beatrice had retreated to her room, her own grief compounded by the burden of her pregnancy. Thomas stood by the window, looking out at the rain, his expression unreadable.