The biting wind whipped through the narrow alleyway, stinging ten-year-old Thomas's cheeks. It was the winter of 1830, and even the meager sun seemed to offer little warmth to the grimy streets of London. He clutched a tattered shawl tighter around his thin frame, the worn wool offering scant protection. He hunched his shoulders, trying to disappear into the shadows as three older boys sauntered past, their laughter echoing off the brick walls. They were the butcher's sons, known for their cruel games, and Thomas knew better than to meet their eyes. He lived in a world of cold indifference. Their small room above a noisy tavern provided little comfort. His father, a man whose face was perpetually etched with anger and drink, offered only fists and harsh words. Thomas had learned long ago to brace himself whenever he heard his heavy footsteps climbing the stairs. The fear was a constant companion, a knot in his stomach that never quite loosened. His mother, with her tired eyes and forced smiles, worked at a dimly lit house further down the street. It was a place of hushed whispers and painted faces, where men entered with coins in their hands and left with a glint in their eyes. Thomas didn't fully understand what had gone on there, but he knew it was a place that had brought shame to their already broken life. Sometimes, she would return with a small piece of bread or a worn coat for him, gifts from clients, her only way of showing any form of love. That year had brought with it news of the opening of the Liverpool and Manchester Railway, a marvel they said. It would carry passengers at speeds thought impossible, a sign of progress they were calling it. For Thomas though, the thought of speed and progress seemed distant, irrelevant to the slow, grinding reality of his own life. Progress does not mean anything when you have a hole in your shoe and your stomach aches with hunger. Today, he had been sent to fetch a loaf of stale bread from the baker's shop. The baker, a stout man with flour-dusted hands, often gave him the scraps, a kindness rare in their world. Thomas clutched the small loaf close to his chest as he hurried back, the wind cutting through the thin fabric. The alley seemed longer than usual today, and the shadows seemed to hold more menace. He was tired, hungry, and most of all, lonely. He wondered if things would ever get better if there was a way to escape this constant cycle of fear and pain. 

Reaching their room above the tavern, Thomas hesitated before pushing open the rickety door. The air inside was thick with the smells of stale ale and damp wool, the same odors that seemed to cling to everything in their lives. His father was slumped in a chair by the small, cold hearth, his breathing ragged, his face flushed and blotchy. Empty bottles of gin littered the floor around him, a testament to his escape from the world. A wave of apprehension washed over Thomas. He knew this look, this heavy, unpredictable stillness. He tried to be as quiet as possible, placing the loaf of bread on the small, scarred table. He then reached for a small piece of charcoal from a pile by the hearth and began to sketch on the wall. He had found some solace in drawing; the rough lines on the stone offering a fleeting sense of control in his otherwise chaotic life. He drew the trains he'd seen in the paper, or the horses in the nearby stables, anything to get his mind away from the moment. A sudden movement from his father made him jump. The man lurched forward, his eyes narrowed in a drunken haze. "Boy!" he roared, his voice rough as sandpaper, "Where's my supper?"Thomas swallowed, fear constricting his throat. "I-I brought the bread, father." He gestured to the table, his small hand trembling. His father's hand shot out, grabbing the loaf and throwing it across the room, scattering the bread into the dirt. "Bread! You think this is enough for a man like me?!" He stumbled to his feet, his eyes fixated on Thomas, "Where's the rest? Why is there not more?"Thomas backed away slowly, his heart hammering against his ribs. He had been trying to be quiet, out of the way, but somehow this had always been how it ended. His father was a walking storm, and Thomas always seemed to be in its path. "I-I don't have more, father. The baker only had one loaf today," he stammered, his voice barely a whisper. His father let out a growl of frustration and took a step closer, his shadow looming over Thomas. "Lying little weasel. You must have hidden it, or taken some for yourself," he said in a slurred voice, and grabbed Thomas by the arm, his fingers digging into his skin."No, Father, I didn't! Please, I didn't!" Thomas cried, his voice rising in panic as he tried to wriggle free, but his father's grip only grew tighter. His father pulled him closer, bringing Thomas to his face. "You think you can disobey me, boy? Do you think you are better than me? I should teach you a lesson." His breath reeked of gin and stale smoke as he raised his other hand, a fist clenching towards the boy's face. Before it could land, however, a sharp voice cut through the air. "Leave the boy be, you drunken oaf!" His mother stood in the doorway, her hand on her hip and her face stern, no hint of the soft nature she showed for Thomas. She had been out, trying to get the coin as she always did, and had heard the ruckus from outside. His father growled at her, "What are you doing here, woman? This is between me and the boy!" He released his hold on Thomas, his attention now fixed on her. His mother stepped further into the room, her eyes narrowed. "You're hurting him! He's done nothing to deserve this." Her voice was steady, the anger in her eyes a match for his. Thomas had rarely seen his mother like this. A tense silence fell between them, the only sound the crackling of the fire in the hearth. His father, swaying slightly, eventually turned away with a grunt. "Fine. He's your problem, then." He staggered back to his chair, collapsing into it with a heavy sigh, and reached for another bottle of gin. Thomas's mother turned to him, her face softening. She pulled him into a hug, a rare moment of warmth in their cold existence. "Are you alright, my love?" she whispered, checking his arms for any bruising, her voice thick with worry. Thomas nodded, tears welling in his eyes, a mixture of relief and exhaustion flooding through him. He was safe, for now. But he knew, as he hugged her back, that the storm was never far away. He watched as his mother made the effort to pick up the bread, making it somewhat edible again, this was their life and would likely continue as such.

The moment of comfort was fleeting. His mother's grip loosened, her face hardening again, the mask of weary resignation settling back into place. "Go on then, you need to eat, get some rest." Her voice was flat, the softness gone as quickly as it had appeared. She turned away, already seeming distant, as if the brief display of concern had been a weakness she regretted. Thomas knew that the needs of their survival, of keeping a roof over their heads, were paramount, and emotional displays were a luxury they could not afford. He ate the bread in silence, his mind swirling with the ever-present feeling that life was unfair. He huddled on the thin pallet on the floor, the cold seeping into his bones. He could hear his mother's hushed murmurs with his father, and as usual, they ended in a drunken snore. His dreams that night were filled with monstrous trains, their metal wheels grinding him down, and faceless men with angry eyes. He woke up with a start, the first rays of dawn painting the room a pale grey. He could hear the sounds of the city awakening outside, the clatter of carts, the cries of street vendors. He went to the corner where he did his drawings and saw a new, strange, paper had appeared under the small stack of coal. It was thin, and almost translucent, not like the brown paper he used for drawings, and it had a strange, almost shimmering quality. He picked it up and noticed that there were odd symbols on it, not letters or numbers, but an unknown language that seemed to hum beneath his fingers. He had never seen anything like it. Where did this come from? He looked around the room, his father was still passed out, and his mother wasn't there, but he could hear her getting ready downstairs. He took the paper and put it into his worn pocket, a strange feeling of both curiosity and dread growing inside him. Days turned into weeks, and Thomas kept the paper a secret. The abuse from his father continued, the older boys still taunted him on the streets, and his mother's affection remained sporadic. Yet, the strange paper, tucked safely away, had become a source of fascination. He would often take it out when he was alone, running his fingers over the unfamiliar symbols, his mind trying to decipher their meaning. One day, while scavenging for scraps near the docks, Thomas stumbled upon a small, hidden alcove, tucked away between two towering warehouses. It was a place he had never seen before, and something drew him to it. Inside, on a rough wooden table, were an assortment of strange objects: intricate metal tools, oddly shaped stones, and a collection of papers similar to the one he possessed. A figure sat hunched over the table, his face hidden in shadow, but he could see their hands moving with great purpose, manipulating the odd tools and stones. The figure looked up suddenly, their eyes, the only feature visible in the dark, fixing on Thomas. They were intense, almost unnervingly so, but they held no malice. "Who are you, child?" they asked, their voice low and gravelly, and a small smile formed on their face. Thomas hesitated, his heart pounding in his chest. He was afraid, but also strangely drawn to the figure. This place, this person, felt different, like a secret he was meant to find. He took out the strange paper and held it out. "I... I found this," he stammered. The figure's eyes widened, their head tilted to the side. They reached for a handout, their fingers tracing the strange symbols on the paper. "Where did you get this?" they asked, their voice now a little higher in shock. Thomas, for the first time in his life, felt like he had stumbled onto something important, something more than the cold reality of his everyday life. He had found an oddity, and the feeling was a strange mixture of curiosity and a sense of hope that this could be a new beginning. Little did he know that this encounter was about to unravel the very fabric of his world and that the strange paper was not just an oddity, but a key to something much larger, and more dangerous, than he could imagine.