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  I

  In the soot-smeared alleys of Birmingham, 1842, where the cng of forges and coughing of children were more common than church bells, lived a girl with ash-stained fingertips and rebellion in her blood. Her name was Cra Wren. Eighteen, and already older than her years, she moved through the gray morning fog like a shadow unwilling to settle.

  Her mother had been taken by the fever six winters ago. Her father remained in their dim house like mildew—drinking, muttering,forgetting how to live. In his silence, Cra learned to fill the quiet with stolen books and thoughts deemed dangerous for a girl of her station.

  She had a slender build, her figure narrow and wiry, like a sapling forced to grow crooked in the shadow of rger trees. She stood at a medium height, though she always seemed smaller in crowds—more by choice than nature. Her chest was near-ft beneath her worn bodice, a fact she never mourned. She saw no use for softness when the world offered her nothing but sharp edges.

  Her skin was pale beneath the ever-present dust, marked by a consteltion of heavy freckles that bloomed across her nose, cheeks, and shoulders like a protest against refinement. Her dark brown hair hung loose in disobedient waves, often tangled and smelling faintly of smoke and sweat. She didn’t wear perfume, didn’t powder her face—she considered such things distractions meant to dull the sharpness of girls like her.

  Her armpits, unshaven and unapologetic, were a quiet rebellion in themselves. Cra had no interest in becoming the kind of woman men dreamed about in parlors. She wanted to be remembered in the streets, in the gutters, in the fight.

  On a heavy Sunday afternoon, in a rented room filled with peeling wallpaper and the echo of distant weeping, Cra locked the door.

  There were feelings she couldn’t name. Not in this world, not in this skin. But beneath her corset and petticoat, something stirred—a heat, a pulse, a quiet ache no sermon could chase away.

  Lying on her threadbare mattress, she closed her eyes. Her fingers trembled slightly, tracing patterns only she could see. Her thoughts drifted—soft and slow—toward Edith Moore.

  Cra's fingers trailed along her inner thigh, inching higher and higher. She could feel the heat pooling between her legs, the ache of desire.

  Edith's touch lingered in her mind, phantom fingers tracing the curve of her breast, the swell of her hip. She arched into the touch, a soft moan escaping her lips as her hand crept under her skirt, brushing against the damp ce of her undergarments.Edith, her closest friend since childhood. Edith, with her clever ugh and lingering touch. Edith, with lips like summer fruit and eyes that always lingered a second too long.

  Cra bit her lip, breath catching—

  "Cra?"

  The voice shattered the quiet like a dropped pte.

  Edith stood in the doorway, a basket cradled in her arms. The door hadn’t tched.

  "I knocked. You didn’t answer," she said, hesitating. "I brought bread."

  Cra sat up too quickly, her face flushed, hair tangled in rebellion. Her skirt clung to her legs like guilt.

  "You should’ve knocked louder," she said, too quickly.

  "I did. Twice."

  Their eyes met. Cra’s heart thudded like a smith’s hammer. Edith blinked, confused, not quite suspicious.

  "You look flushed," Edith said gently. "Feverish?"

  Cra shook her head. "It’s warm in here. The air doesn’t move."

  Edith gnced around, setting the bread on the small table. "You shouldn’t lock yourself away so much. It makes ghosts out of people."

  Cra didn’t reply. Her fingers twisted in her skirt.

  Edith stepped forward and pced a hand on Cra’s forehead. "You do feel warm. I’ll bring tonic tomorrow. Or…" A pause. Then, a smirk. "Or maybe you were just enjoying your own company?"

  Cra’s breath caught.

  Edith’s eyes sparkled with mischief. "I’m not daft. I’ve heard the sounds before. You whimper like a guilty cat."

  Cra went crimson, shame and fear battling behind her ribs.

  "I wasn’t—"

  "You were." Edith’s voice softened, turned pyful. "It’s not a sin, you know. Just human."

  Cra stared at the floor.

  Edith leaned closer. "I’m only curious… who were you thinking of?"

  Cra’s silence stretched like a drawn string.

  "Don’t say Thomas Grafton," Edith ughed. "You deserve better than that boring lump."

  "You’re wicked," Cra whispered, but her smile trembled.

  "And you’re redder than a beet." Edith grinned, then, after a pause, her eyes dipped—just for a breath—then flicked away. "Anyway. I’ll leave you to cool down. Try not to combust."

  She turned and walked out, humming softly. The door clicked shut behind her.

  Cra sank back onto the mattress, heart pounding in her chest. She didn’t know what Edith suspected, or how much she truly saw—but she knew she could never speak the full truth aloud.

  They saw each other often after that. But Cra never brought it up. Never confessed what had stirred in her chest, or what her hands had remembered. Instead, she wrote it all down—ink-stained confessions hidden beneath floorboards. Letters never sent. Words too soft, too raw to breathe.

  Until her father found them.

  His fury was fire.

  He called her a devil. A disgrace. A stain.

  He struck her until her lip split, until red soaked her chemise like spilled wine. Dragged her through the mud-slick street by her hair, shouting for priests and neighbors alike. And they came—not to help, but to witness.

  Cra was condemned by whispers.

  Edith disappeared. Her family sent her to Kent, to marry a cousin with a name older than his teeth. She never knew why Cra vanished. She never saw the letters. Never heard the truth.

  Cra remained. A warning. A silence.

  She stopped speaking. Stopped eating. Her hands grew skeletal, her heart quieter with each passing day.

  One night, the house caught fire.

  Whether by chance or despair, no one knew. Only that when the ashes cooled, the rumors were that two bodies were found. One curled by the window. One slumped with a bottle still in hand.

  The city didn’t mourn her.

  But sometimes, when the fog creeps heavy along the canals, workers swear they see a girl with ash on her skin and fire in her eyes.

  Still searching.

  Always searching.

  II

  The fmes had licked at her skirts and singed her hair, but some stubborn part of her refused to burn. When the house colpsed in on itself, she’d already slipped into the alley, dazed, bleeding, but alive.

  She didn’t scream. Didn’t look back.

  Some said the girl had been reduced to ash. Some said she fled to London. Others whispered that she was cursed, that her sins had summoned fire from heaven.

  Cra let them talk.

  She lived in the shadows now, ducking under the city's soot-bck rooftops, finding work where no questions were asked. At the edge of Birmingham’s dyeing yards, among vats of violent color and the sting of chemicals, she scrubbed stone floors with raw hands and kept her head low.

  She hadn’t spoken in days.

  Sometimes at night, when the workers were asleep, she’d sneak behind the dye vats and stare at her reflection in the stained puddles. Her hair had grown jagged and uneven. The freckles on her cheeks were faded, skin paler than before. Her body felt smaller, though not in size—just… quieter. Less like it belonged to her.

  And sometimes, if no one was near, her hand would drift over her ribs, where the bruises from her father’s st blow still bloomed beneath the surface. Not to feel pain—just to remember. To remind herself she hadn’t imagined it all.

  The truth of her fire—what started it, how she survived—was hers to keep. But something else flickered inside now. Not just defiance, but a hollowness that ached like hunger.

  And then Edith came back.

  It had been months. Cra hadn’t expected to ever see her again, not really. But there she was—stepping out of a bck-cquered carriage in the factory courtyard, with curls pinned tight and her posture all wrong.

  Cra froze behind a stack of crates, breath caught like a stone in her throat.

  Edith looked different. Sharper at the jaw, her full figure swathed in expensive cloth that didn’t quite suit her. But her eyes… they were still Edith’s. Amber-brown and always a little too curious.

  “Is that the overseer’s daughter?” someone muttered nearby.

  Cra didn’t speak. Didn’t blink.

  Edith had come with her father to inspect the workers’ quarters, something about investing in a new textile line. She didn’t see Cra. Not yet.

  But Cra saw her. Her eyes swept over the workers like they were faceless cy, shaped by grime and forgotten by time.

  Cra didn’t know what she expected. A gasp? A pause? Recognition in the way Edith’s brow creased or her hand twitched toward her heart? There was nothing. Only the distant echo of a life Cra no longer belonged to.

  The man beside Edith barked something about deys and filth, and she nodded—quiet, obedient. Her voice, when Cra heard it, had changed. Polished at the edges. Softer, distant.

  Cra turned back to her cart of dye barrels, arms trembling. She didn’t cry. Not then. Only ter, under a broken eave with the rain sliding down her face like absolution.

  That night, she found herself near the chapel ruins where they’d once dared each other to climb the roof. The stones were moss-covered now, the bell long since gone. Cra sat where they used to hide from chores, legs drawn to her chest.

  “I’m still here, Edith,” she whispered. Her voice cracked like a frostbitten branch. “I never left. You just stopped looking.”

  The wind didn’t answer. Only a stray cat mewled nearby, rubbing its side against her soot-streaked boot.

  Days passed. Cra’s work continued. Her scars faded to dull pink lines. The world grew colder.

  Then, one morning, a letter came. Left under a stone near her pallet in the dye house.

  It was unsigned.

  "I saw a ghost in the yard. Freckles and fire. But ghosts don’t limp, and they don’t bleed. If it was you—I’m sorry. I was scared. I’m still scared."

  Cra read it once. Then again. Her fingers trembled.

  She tucked it into her shirt and didn’t tell a soul.

  Over the next weeks, more letters came. Always short. Always unsigned. But Cra knew the handwriting. Knew the rhythm of those sentences like the beat of her own pulse.

  "Your name still hurts when I say it aloud."

  "I dreamt of you in the fog. You were running. I couldn’t follow."

  "My father is sending me away again. They say Kent this time. Maybe France. Anywhere I can’t remember you."

  Cra never wrote back.

  She wanted to. But her words, when she tried to shape them, felt too heavy, too dangerous. What if they fell into the wrong hands? What if Edith changed her mind again?

  Still, she clutched each letter like a lifeline, reading them until the ink blurred from her fingerprints.

  Then, one night, another came.

  "Meet me. The old chapel. Midnight. I don’t care if it’s mad. I need to see you."

  Cra didn’t hesitate.

  The air was wet with the kind of fog that wrapped around your neck and whispered things you didn’t want to hear. Cra pulled her coat tight, the hem dragging through puddles as she crept through Birmingham’s crooked back nes. Her boots were worn through in pces, soles fpping like tired tongues. Didn’t matter. She had a pce to be.

  She hadn’t seen the chapel in months, maybe longer. It was half-eaten by time—walls leaning, roof mostly gone—but it still stood. Like her. Barely.

  Cra arrived just before midnight. She crouched behind the stone archway, peering into the chapel’s hollow ribs. No light. No movement.

  Her breath caught. What if it was a trap? What if Edith had never written those letters? What if it was some sick joke from one of the workers who’d seen her read them by candlelight?

  But then—

  Footsteps. Soft. Familiar.

  Cra straightened.

  Edith appeared at the far end of the chapel, cloak draped over her shoulders like it belonged to someone else. Her curls were looser than before, escaping the tight bun she used to keep in pce with pins like daggers.

  Cra stepped forward, slow. Like a deer not sure if the hunter’s gone.

  “Cra?” Edith’s voice cracked like old wood. “You’re real.”

  “You wrote to me,” Cra said. It wasn’t a question.

  Edith nodded. “I didn’t think you’d come.”

  Cra crossed the distance between them, boots squelching on damp stone. “Neither did I.”

  They stood inches apart, both of them different girls than they were st winter. Cra, all hard corners and hollow hunger. Edith, softer but stretched thin, like she’d been trying to be someone else too long.

  “I didn’t know you survived,” Edith whispered. “The fire—people said…”

  Cra’s jaw clenched. “People say a lot. Doesn’t make it true.”

  A silence settled between them. Not awkward. Just heavy.

  Edith reached out, then paused. “Can I…?”

  Cra didn’t answer with words. She just nodded once.

  Edith’s hand cupped Cra’s cheek, thumb brushing a freckle near her eye. “You still feel like you.”

  “I don’t,” Cra said, voice raw. “Not most days.”

  Edith’s hand fell. “I’m sorry. I was afraid. Of what they’d do if they found out I knew you were alive. Of what I’d do if I let myself miss you.”

  “I never stopped missing you,” Cra said.

  A beat.

  “I tried to,” Edith admitted.

  They sat together on the old altar, the stone cold beneath them. Cra rested her chin on her knees. Edith picked at the thread on her cloak.

  “I thought about leaving,” Cra murmured. “For good. Getting on a train. Disappearing.”

  “Why didn’t you?”

  “Didn’t know where to go,” she said. “Didn’t have anyone to go with.”

  They both knew what that meant.

  Edith leaned in, her voice a breath: “You could come with me. When my father sends me away.”

  Cra turned to look at her. “You serious?”

  “I don’t want to be alone,” Edith said. “Not anymore.”

  “You had me once,” Cra said, not bitter—just honest. “And you let me go.”

  “I was stupid.”

  “You were scared.”

  “Still am.”

  Cra’s lips twitched. Not quite a smile, but close. “Me too.”

  They sat in silence, the chapel around them echoing with old prayers no one remembered.

  “I don’t care what people say,” Edith whispered. “About us. About what’s proper.”

  “I don’t think I ever did,” Cra said. “Maybe that’s why I burned.”

  Edith ughed softly, wiping at her eye with the back of her hand. “I missed your mouth. The way you say things like they’re already halfway to poetry.”

  Cra raised an eyebrow. “That’s new.”

  “I’ve been reading. Since you left. You rubbed off on me.”

  Cra looked away. “I didn’t mean to leave. I just… couldn’t stay.”

  “I know.”

  A gust of wind swept through the broken chapel, rustling the wildflowers that had grown between the stones. Cra reached down and plucked one, held it out.

  Edith took it, eyes shining.

  They didn’t kiss. Not yet. Not there.

  But something passed between them—something that didn’t need names or rules.

  Just realness.

  When the fog grew thicker, they parted ways. Edith returned to her carriage, Cra to the dye house. But now, she wasn’t alone in the world, not truly.

  There were still ten thousand things between them—expectations, lies, bloodlines, the sharp edge of a world that chewed girls like them up and spat them into corners.

  But there was also a chance.

  And for now, that was enough.

  III

  The dye house always smelled of vinegar and burnt fabric, but to Cra, it was safety. Sort of. No one asked questions, no one stared too long. They were all too busy dipping cloth, scrubbing vats, and coughing up the city's bck lungs.

  She slipped in through the back, moving like smoke. The old woman who ran the pce, Mrs. Addle, gave her a nod and nothing else. That was their deal—Cra did her work, kept her head down, and no one pretended to care where she slept or what bruises she came in with.

  She tucked herself into the shadows near the drying racks, pulling her coat tighter. Edith’s voice still echoed in her chest. "You could come with me." She had meant it. Cra could feel it in the way Edith's fingers trembled when they brushed hers. It wasn't pity. It was something else—something that felt like a door creaking open in the back of a locked room.

  But hope had teeth, and Cra wasn’t sure she was ready to be bitten.

  The next few days blurred. Work. Silence. A loaf of bread shared with the twins from the undry room. One broken needle. A rip across her palm. Blood in the rinse vat.

  And then, a letter.

  Slipped beneath her satchel. Folded twice. Ink smudged, as if written in a rush.

  Cra,My uncle in Kent has offered me a pce. I leave Tuesday next. Father says it will make me right.But I don’t want to be right. I want to be real. With you.Meet me at the old tollhouse. Monday at dusk. If you come, we go together. If not… I’ll understand.

  E.

  Cra read it three times. Then once more, aloud, whispering like the letters might disappear if she spoke them wrong.

  Her heart beat so hard she thought it might split her ribs.

  That night, sleep didn’t come. She y on the dye house floor, eyes open to the rafters, listening to the steady drip of water from a cracked pipe. What if it was a lie? What if Edith’s father found out and used it against her? What if she was just chasing a girl-shaped ghost?

  But then she remembered the way Edith had looked at her in the chapel. Like Cra was the only solid thing in a crumbling world.

  And that was what made her pack.

  Just a satchel. A scarf. The locket her mother gave her before the fever took her away. And a book—one she had stolen, yes, but cherished all the same. A battered volume of poems with pages stained and margins scrawled.

  On Monday, as the sun bled orange across the rooftops, Cra stood by the tollhouse, arms crossed tight over her chest. The world felt like it was holding its breath.

  She waited.

  Ten minutes.

  Fifteen.

  A carriage rolled past, and she ducked behind a pilr.

  Then—

  Footsteps. Slower this time. Careful.

  Edith appeared.

  She looked different—not just the traveling cloak or the little bag slung over her shoulder. It was in her eyes. A kind of knowing. Like she’d already let the past go.

  "You came," Cra breathed.

  "So did you."

  They didn’t say anything else for a long minute. Just stood there, two girls wrapped in dusk and uncertainty.

  Then Cra took Edith’s hand.

  No fireworks. No dramatic music. Just the quiet thrum of two hearts choosing something impossible.

  "Where are we going?" Cra asked.

  "Doesn’t matter," Edith said. "So long as it’s not here."

  They walked. Not far, not yet. They needed a pn—money, names, stories to wear like second skins.

  They stayed the night in an abandoned barn outside the city, huddled together beneath itchy hay and borrowed bnkets. Cra couldn’t sleep. Not from fear. From the ache of something new growing in her chest.

  Edith whispered to her in the dark.

  "Do you think we’re wrong?"

  Cra shook her head, even though Edith couldn’t see. "I think the world’s wrong. For making girls like us feel like we have to disappear just to be free."

  Edith turned toward her. "Then we won’t disappear. Not really."

  Cra looked at her. "Then what?"

  "We change. Everything."

  They didn’t kiss.

  They didn’t need to.

  In that moment, their fingers tangled together beneath the bnket, it was enough.

  A promise.

  The barn smelled of old straw and earth, but it was warmer than any room Cra had known for weeks. As dawn threaded gold through the warped sts above, she stirred beside Edith, both still bundled beneath their borrowed bnket. The other girl was already awake, staring at the ceiling like it might whisper back secrets if she looked long enough.

  “You didn’t sleep,” Cra mumbled.

  “Didn’t want to miss the sky changin’,” Edith said softly, voice still husky with sleep.

  Cra blinked the bleariness away. “Looks the same as it always does.”

  Edith rolled her head to the side, meeting Cra’s eyes. “Nah. Today it feels different. Like it’s ours now.”

  That made Cra smile—small, tired, but real. “Y’mean we’re fugitives.”

  “Adventurers,” Edith corrected, with a grin. “Proper wild ones. Like them highwaywomen in the penny novels.”

  Cra chuckled, the sound unfamiliar after so many days of silence. “Reckon we’ll need more than half a loaf and a coat between us if we’re pnnin’ to live like outws.”

  “We’ll figure it out.”

  Cra sat up slowly, brushing straw from her skirt. Her muscles ached. “Where to then? Can’t stay here.”

  Edith pulled out a folded scrap of newspaper from her bag. “There’s a train southbound tonight. It don’t stop at Birmingham, but there's a stop at Tamworth. We can hitch a ride, hop off near Lichfield maybe.”

  Cra raised a brow. “You know someone there?”

  “No. But it ain’t here.”

  That was enough.

  They spent the day traveling on foot, slipping between hedgerows and narrow country paths, avoiding main roads. Cra had wrapped her scarf around her hair to look less like herself—less like the girl from the dye house, or the scandal on burnt-out Cobble Street. Edith had tucked her curls under a bonnet, one that didn’t quite hide the freckle just above her right brow.

  As they passed a field of frost-bitten heather, Edith suddenly grabbed Cra’s hand.

  “I’ve always wanted to just—run,” she said, breathless. “No corset. No chaperones. No future already written.”

  Cra squeezed her hand back. “Then run.”

  And they did. For just a minute, wild and ughing like children too young to know the weight of the world. Their skirts tangled in weeds, boots soaked from thawed morning grass, but neither of them cared. Cra’s lungs burned, her heart soared.

  For once, she felt alive without having to fight for it.

  By the time dusk bled into the edges of the horizon, they reached the station near Tamworth. It was little more than a ptform and a rusted bench, the train already rumbling in the distance.

  They didn’t buy tickets. Didn’t have coin for that. Instead, Cra led them toward the freight cars, crouching low behind a stack of crates. Her heart pounded—not from fear, but the thrill of doing something she was never supposed to.

  Edith followed without hesitation.

  “You sure about this?” she whispered.

  “Nope,” Cra replied. “But I’m tired of waitin’ for permission.”

  They climbed aboard just before the train began to move, ducking into the shadows of a crate-filled car. Wind howled through the cracks. The floor rattled under them. Cra clutched her bag tight, holding her breath.

  Edith bumped their shoulders together. “Well, Miss Wren. We’re officially on the run.”

  Cra grinned despite herself. “Feels mad.”

  “Good kind of mad, though.”

  They settled in the corner, knees drawn up, heads close as the train carried them into darkness.

  For the first time in forever, the future wasn’t a cage—it was a bnk page.

  Hours passed. They spoke in whispers. About nothing. About everything.

  “I nearly kissed you,” Edith said, voice barely audible above the rattle.

  Cra’s breath hitched. “When?”

  “That day. In the chapel.”

  Cra swallowed. “Why didn’t you?”

  “I was scared,” Edith admitted. “Of what it meant. Of losin’ you if it was wrong.”

  Cra rested her head against Edith’s shoulder. “It wasn’t wrong. It just wasn’t the right time.”

  Silence fell between them again—this one soft, not strained.

  Outside, the world blurred. Inside, something settled.

  They arrived near Lichfield just before dawn. Cra’s limbs were stiff, her mouth dry, but her spirit felt sharper than it had in months. They slipped from the train and into the countryside like smoke, leaving no trace.

  A kind man with a cart gave them a ride into the edge of the town in exchange for helping unload firewood. He didn’t ask questions. Didn’t care about names.

  By midday, they had found a pce to stay—a tiny room above a weaver’s shop. The woman who ran it barely looked at them, muttering about “girls from the city always runnin’ from somethin’.” But she handed them a key and pointed up the narrow stairs.

  Their room was small. Two beds. One window. A kettle. That was it.

  Cra sat on the mattress and exhaled slowly.

  “We made it,” Edith said.

  “For now,” Cra replied. But she was smiling. For real this time.

  Edith crossed the room and sat beside her. “You still think we’re gonna vanish?”

  Cra looked at her. Eyes full of soot and light. “Maybe. But not tonight.”

  IV

  The sickness hadn’t taken her yet, but it had already hollowed her out. Cra’s mother sat by the window every day now, wrapped in her shawl, hands curled like dried leaves around a chipped teacup that never had tea. Outside, soot fell like snow on the rooftops, and the streets rattled with the sound of coal carts and coughing.

  Cra was fifteen. Small, sharp, and angry at the world.

  “Read to me,” her mother rasped. Her voice had turned to smoke weeks ago, worn thin by the fever.

  Cra hesitated. The book on the table wasn’t a prayer book. It wasn’t approved by any school or church. It was one she’d stolen—pages yellowed, spine cracked, full of dangerous ideas and louder women.

  Her mother’s eyes flicked to the cover and smiled anyway. “The one with the witch.”

  Cra’s heart ached at that smile. It was the st piece of her mother not yet touched by death.

  So she read. Quietly, carefully. About a girl who ran barefoot through forests and talked to crows. A girl who burned nothing but lies.

  By the second chapter, her mother had dozed off.

  Cra kept reading.

  Later that night, when the city was asleep under its smoky bnket, Cra sat by the dying firepce, running her fingers over the edge of the book.

  She wanted to be that girl—the one who ran and didn’t look back. Not the one stuck between undry lines and the stench of her father’s drink.

  “Oi,” came a voice behind her.

  Her father stood in the doorway, unshaven, face cast in shadows.

  “Shouldn’t be readin’ that filth,” he said, eyes narrowed. “Puts thoughts in your head.”

  “They’re already there,” Cra muttered.

  He stepped into the light, and she flinched—but he didn’t strike her. Just swayed, bottle in hand.

  “You think you’re special?” he asked, bitter. “You think the world’s got room for girls who talk back?”

  “No,” Cra said. “That’s why I have to make space.”

  For a moment, something flickered in his eyes. Pride? Regret? She couldn’t tell. He just grunted and turned away.

  The silence that followed was heavier than any blow.

  A week ter, her mother was gone.

  No final words. No miracle recovery. Just the sound of rain hitting the roof, and the stillness of a room that would never smell like vender again.

  Cra didn’t cry at the funeral.

  Not because she wasn’t grieving, but because grief felt like a luxury. She had to wash the sheets. Cook the meals. Keep her head down.

  But at night, in secret, she read the book again. The one with the witch.

  And under her pillow, she tucked a piece of paper with one line written in charcoal:

  “You are not meant to be silent.”

  The months that followed blurred together. Her father grew meaner, or maybe just emptier. He didn’t work. Didn’t eat unless she pced the food in front of him. The house grew colder.

  And Cra grew harder.

  She found work in the dye house—long hours, heavy buckets, rough ughter from boys who stared too long and spoke too loud. But the work gave her coin. Gave her space.

  At lunch, she sat alone on the stone wall near the water and watched the bck dye swirl into the canal like ink bleeding into parchment.

  She met Edith there.

  Edith was loud in the way Cra never dared to be. She wore her freckles like medals and cursed under her breath when she thought no one was listening.

  “What’re you readin’?” Edith asked one day, flopping down beside her.

  Cra clutched the book to her chest. “Nothin’. Just somethin’ old.”

  “Looks like witch stuff,” Edith said, grinning. “You a witch?”

  Cra looked at her. “Would it scare you if I was?”

  “No,” Edith said, voice suddenly quiet. “I think I’d like that.”

  They became friends slowly, like vines growing toward the same patch of sun. At work, they passed gnces. After shifts, they walked together. Talked about the things they weren’t supposed to—about women who ran away, about the feeling of being watched, about fire and freedom and the weight of wanting more.

  One night, when the sky was bruised with rainclouds, they ducked into an alley to avoid a drunk stumbling toward them.

  Cra’s hand brushed Edith’s.

  She didn’t pull away.

  Edith looked at her, hair damp with mist. “Ever think about leavin’?”

  “All the time.”

  “You’d take me with you, wouldn’t you?”

  Cra didn’t answer right away. Just looked up at the smoke stacks choking the stars.

  “Yeah,” she whispered. “I would.”

  V

  Cra y awake in the tiny room above the weaver’s shop. Edith slept soundly in the bed beside hers, one hand flopped over the edge, chest rising and falling slow and easy.

  Cra reached under her pillow and pulled out the torn scrap she still carried. Faded now, but still legible.

  You are not meant to be silent.

  She traced the words with her finger.

  Her mother had died in silence.

  Her father had drowned in it.

  But Cra Wren?

  She was going to live loud.

  A floorboard creaked.

  She looked up—Edith’s eyes were open, the darkness soft around her face.

  "You still awake?" Edith's voice was low, hoarse with sleep.

  Cra nodded. "Couldn’t sleep."

  Edith propped herself up on an elbow, bnkets slipping down her arm. “You been whisperin’ to ghosts again?”

  "Maybe."

  A pause.

  Then Edith swung her legs over the side and crossed the short space between their beds. She didn’t ask. Just slid in beside Cra, pulling the bnket up over both of them like they’d done when they were kids hiding from thunder.

  Except they weren’t kids anymore.

  Cra could feel the warmth of Edith’s body through the thin cotton nightdress, feel her breath on her neck.

  "You always get this way when you’re thinkin’ too much," Edith whispered. “What’s eatin’ at you?”

  Cra turned her face toward the ceiling. “I just… keep thinking about everything we’ve lost. Everything we never got.”

  "You sound like an old woman," Edith murmured with a half-smile. “You’re only eighteen.”

  "Feels older."

  Silence hummed between them. Close. Quiet. Barely touching—yet the space crackled like a fuse waiting to catch.

  "Cra..." Edith’s voice was quieter now, unsure. "That day I walked in on you… I weren’t ughing at you, you know."

  Cra flinched, heart thudding. “I know.”

  "No, you don’t." Edith shifted closer, breath brushing Cra’s cheek now. “I… I think I always knew. Even if you never said it.”

  Cra turned her head. Their noses nearly touched.

  “You knew what?” she asked, voice barely audible.

  Edith hesitated, then: “That it weren’t just anyone you were thinkin’ of.”

  Cra’s mouth parted, but no sound came out.

  “I weren’t shocked, Cra. I were jealous.”

  Cra’s breath caught.

  “Jealous?” she whispered.

  Edith nodded. “I thought you’d found someone. Someone you could… feel like that about. But it weren’t someone. It were me, weren’t it?”

  Cra said nothing.

  Didn’t have to.

  Their eyes met. Soft. Searching.

  Then slowly, like a tide creeping in, Edith leaned forward.

  Their lips met—tentative at first, like both were afraid of breaking the moment. But when Cra didn’t pull away—when she kissed back, hands trembling against Edith’s sides—it deepened. Grew warmer. Hungrier.

  Cra rolled to face her fully, drawing Edith closer, her fingers tangling in the back of her nightdress.

  Clothes rustled. Skin met skin.

  It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t perfect.

  But it was real.

  They clung to each other like lifelines, like girls who had known too much grief and not enough softness.

  Edith’s fingers brushed over Cra’s ribs, lingered at her hip.

  Her hand slid lower, cupping the curves of Cra's rear. She squeezed the supple flesh, pulling Cra flush against her. Cra gasped, feeling Edith's pulse quicken, her breath hot on her neck.

  Edith, her fingers dipping beneath the hem of Cra's skirt. She caressed the smooth skin of Cra's inner thigh, inching higher and higher until she brushed against the damp patch of her drawers. Cra shuddered, hips bucking voluntarily into Edith's touch. She tangled her fingers in Edith's hair, tugging lightly as a moan escaped her lips. Edith's touch was electric, sending sparks of need through every nerve ending. She rubbed the damp fabric of Cra's drawers, feeling the heat of her dripping cunt radiating through the flimsy barrier. Her own body ached, breasts tightening, core clenching with want.

  Cra writhed against her, panting harshly, her own arousal building with each brush of Edith's clever fingers. She nipped at Edith's throat, sucking a dark mark into her skin, branding her, ciming her as she was being cimed.

  And Cra let out a choked cry, back arching as her body shuddered and clenched, her walls fluttering wildly around Edith's invading fingers as she came undone, her pleasure cresting like a wave that crashed over her and drowned her utterly in its depths.

  Edith smiled. “You’re fire, Cra Wren.”

  Their hands wandered, hearts racing under pale skin and quiet gasps. Every movement was a word unspoken, a confession buried in trembling fingertips.

  By the time the dawn bled grey into the window, they y tangled in one another—breathless, quiet, and finally, finally heard.

  The first light of dawn filtered through the threadbare curtains, casting a pale glow over the small room above the weaver's shop. Cra y on her side, her gaze fixed on the sleeping form of Edith beside her. The events of the night before pyed over in her mind—a tapestry of whispered confessions, tender touches, and the unspoken promise of something more.

  As the city stirred to life below, the reality of their situation settled heavily on Cra's chest. In the harsh light of day, the warmth of their shared moments was overshadowed by the looming specter of societal condemnation. The industrial heart of Birmingham was no pce for two women to forge a life together, especially not in a world that viewed their love as an abomination.

  Edith stirred, her eyes fluttering open to meet Cra's troubled gaze. A soft smile graced her lips, but it quickly faded as she registered the apprehension etched into Cra's features.

  "What's wrong?" Edith's voice was husky with sleep, concern cing her words.

  Cra hesitated, searching for the right words. "Edith, what we shared st night... it was beautiful. But the world outside this room won't understand. They won't accept us."

  Edith sat up, reaching for Cra's hand. "I know it's not going to be easy. But I don't want to hide who I am anymore. Who we are."

  Tears welled in Cra's eyes as she squeezed Edith's hand. "Neither do I. But the risks... they're immense. If anyone were to find out, we could lose everything—our livelihoods, our freedom."

  A determined glint appeared in Edith's eyes. "Then we'll find a way to be together, away from here. We can leave Birmingham, start anew where no one knows us."

  Cra's heart ached at the sincerity in Edith's voice. The thought of escaping the soot-den streets of Birmingham was enticing, but the practicalities were daunting. They had little money, no connections beyond the city, and the world was a vast and uncertain pce for two women alone.

  "We'd need a pn," Cra conceded. "We can't just run without knowing where we're going or how we'll survive."

  Edith nodded, her grip on Cra's hand tightening. "We'll figure it out together. We have to believe that there's a pce for us somewhere."

  The day passed in a blur as they went about their work in the weaver's shop, their interactions ced with stolen gnces and fleeting touches. The weight of their secret pressed heavily upon them, but the promise of a future together fueled their resolve.

  As night fell once more, they found soce in each other's arms, whispering dreams of a life unshackled from the chains of societal expectation. They spoke of distant towns where no one knew their names, of simple pleasures like tending a small garden or reading by the fire.

  But reality was never far behind. The knowledge that their love was forbidden cast a shadow over their dreams, a constant reminder of the precariousness of their situation.

  One evening, as they y entwined beneath the covers, Edith broke the silence. "Cra, do you ever wonder what it would be like if the world were different? If we could love openly, without fear?"

  Cra sighed, tracing patterns on Edith's bare shoulder. "Every day. But wishing won't change the world we live in. We have to be cautious."

  Edith propped herself up on one elbow, looking down at Cra with determination. "Then let's change our world. Let's leave and find a pce where we can be ourselves."

  Tears slipped down Cra's cheeks as she nodded. "Alright. We'll leave. But we have to be careful. We need to save money, gather supplies, and choose our destination wisely."

  Over the following weeks, they meticulously pnned their escape, squirreling away coins and gathering information about towns beyond Birmingham. Each day brought them closer to their goal, but also heightened the risk of discovery.

  One fateful evening, as they finalized their pns, a loud knock echoed through the shop below. Panic surged through Cra as she exchanged a fearful gnce with Edith.

  "Stay here," Cra whispered, slipping on her shawl and descending the narrow staircase.

  Opening the door, she was met with the stern face of Mr. Thompson, the shop owner. His eyes narrowed as he looked past her into the dimly lit shop.

  "Cra, is Edith here?" he demanded.

  Cra's heart pounded in her chest. "No, sir. She left earlier."

  Mr. Thompson's gaze lingered for a moment before he nodded curtly. "Tell her I need to speak with her first thing in the morning."

  As he turned and walked away, Cra closed the door, her hands trembling. She knew their time was running out. They had to leave soon, before suspicion turned into condemnation.

  Returning to the room, she found Edith pacing anxiously.

  "What did he want?" Edith asked, her voice ced with worry.

  "He wants to see you in the morning," Cra replied. "I think he suspects something."

  Edith's face paled. "Then we have to leave. Tomorrow night."

  Cra nodded, determination steeling her resolve. "Tomorrow night."

  As they y together for what might be the st time in their small room, they held each other tightly, finding strength in their shared love and the hope of a future where they could live freely.

  But fate had other pns.

  VI

  The morning crept in slow, all grey light and the sound of horses in the alley below. Cra hadn’t slept. Not really. She watched the ceiling shift in the dim glow, hands tucked under the thin bnket pulled to her chest. Edith stirred beside her—soft breaths, a little sigh, a rustle of fabric. Her curls were a riot against the pillow, mouth parted slightly, unaware of the weight sitting heavy in the room.

  Cra rolled onto her side, facing away.

  She couldn’t stop thinking.

  Of what they’d done.

  Of what it meant.

  Of what came next.

  Downstairs, the loom had already begun creaking to life—the weaver’s son always started early, his rhythm brutal and fast. That shop would never be theirs, no matter how many hours Edith offered to work or how quiet Cra kept her head down.

  This world would never let them belong. Not really.

  Not like that.

  Edith woke slowly, groggy and warm-voiced, whispering, “What time is it?” before noticing Cra already upright and dressed, hair loosely pinned.

  "You didn’t sleep," she mumbled, propping herself up.

  Cra didn’t look at her. "Couldn’t."

  A pause.

  "You regret it?"

  Cra's fingers curled around the edge of her shawl. "No."

  Another pause.

  "Then why d’you look like someone’s carved your heart out?"

  Cra finally turned, her eyes red, but not from crying. “Because someone will find out. That’s what always happens. And then it ends bad. Always.”

  Edith slid to the edge of the bed, pulling the bnket around her shoulders. “It’s not like we—what we did—”

  Cra raised a brow. “It’s not like we what, Edith? Not like we kissed? Touched? Laid together in the dark like—like lovers?”

  That word stuck in her throat like soot.

  Edith winced. “I know. I just… I’m scared too.”

  They sat there, the silence between them thick with everything they couldn’t say when the world was listening. Cra stood up, pacing toward the tiny window. Outside, the rooftops slumped under the weight of chimney smoke. The canal shimmered in the distance, a snake of dull silver.

  “I can’t live like this,” Cra whispered. “Not hiding. Not waiting for the next fire, the next whisper, the next time someone pulls me out the door by my bloody hair.”

  Edith’s voice cracked. “Don’t say that—”

  “It’s true.”

  "You’re not her anymore. You’re not that girl who didn’t fight back."

  Cra turned to her, eyes bzing. “Aren’t I? You think being in a new room makes it different? That because we got one bed and no fists in the hallway that I ain’t still terrified every time someone knocks too loud?”

  Edith stood now too, grabbing Cra’s wrist gently. “Then let’s go.”

  Cra blinked. “What?”

  “Let’s go,” Edith said again, firmer. “There’s a train line expanding through Wolverhampton. I’ve heard rumors—they’re hiring up in Manchester. Mills. Factories. They don’t care who you are so long as you work fast.”

  “And we just—run?”

  “We leave before someone gives us a reason not to.”

  Cra looked down at their hands. Edith’s fingers were warm, callused, trembling just a little.

  “Would you really leave everything?” she asked.

  Edith gave a bitter ugh. “What everything? My da barely speaks. My mum thinks I’m cursed ‘cause I’ve never taken a man’s hand. You’re the only thing in this city that makes breathing bearable.”

  The words hung there, daring to exist.

  Cra let her eyes close, forehead brushing against Edith’s. “I keep thinkin’ someone’ll take you from me.”

  “Then let’s not let them.”

  They started pnning in whispers—how to sell the few things they had, which trains stopped nearby, when the weaver’s son would be away long enough to sneak out unnoticed. They talked about fake names, factory wages, what sort of lodging they might find in a pce that didn’t know them.

  Cra made a list in the corner of an old book cover, the ink smudged where her thumb lingered too long.

  It was dangerous. Reckless.

  But maybe—just maybe—it was living.

  That night, they didn’t touch again. They y in their separate beds, fingers just barely brushing between the gap, and spoke about futures that didn’t require hiding. About pces where maybe they could smile in daylight. Pces where people like them weren’t hunted, just ignored.

  “I’d dye my hair,” Edith said sleepily. “Go bck. Or red.”

  “Red’d suit you,” Cra murmured.

  “You’d still love me?”

  Cra’s breath caught.

  “I already do.”

  The night was thick with the scent of coal smoke and damp cobblestones as Cra and Edith sat huddled in the dimly lit room above the weaver’s shop. The single candle between them flickered, casting elongated shadows on the peeling wallpaper. Outside, the distant ctter of horse hooves against stone echoed through the narrow alleys, a reminder of the world they longed to leave behind.

  Cra's hands trembled slightly as she unfolded a tattered map of Engnd, its edges frayed from years of handling. She spread it out on the rickety table, smoothing the creases with care. Edith leaned in, her copper curls brushing against Cra's shoulder, the proximity sending a familiar warmth coursing through Cra's veins.

  "Manchester," Cra whispered, her finger tracing the route northward. "The mills there are always in need of workers. We could start anew."

  Edith nodded, her eyes reflecting both hope and trepidation. "But how do we get there without drawing attention? Two young women traveling alone..."

  Cra swallowed hard, the weight of reality pressing down on her. "We dress as boys," she suggested, her voice barely above a murmur. "It’s safer that way. Less questions."

  Edith's eyes widened, a mixture of surprise and admiration flickering across her face. "You’ve thought this through."

  Cra offered a wry smile. "I’ve had to."

  Silence enveloped them, save for the distant hum of the city settling into the night. Edith reached out, her fingers intertwining with Cra's, the touch grounding them both.

  "Cra," Edith began, her voice ced with vulnerability. "Are you certain about this? Leaving everything behind?"

  Cra met her gaze, the storm in her grey eyes unwavering. "With you? Yes."

  A soft knock at the door jolted them apart. Their hearts raced in unison as they exchanged panicked gnces. Cra extinguished the candle with a swift motion, plunging the room into darkness.

  "Who is it?" Cra called out, her voice steady despite the fear gnawing at her insides.

  "It's Samuel," came the muffled reply. "The weaver's son."

  Cra hesitated before unlocking the door, allowing it to creak open just enough to see Samuel's gaunt face illuminated by the dim glow of the hallway ntern.

  "What do you want?" she asked, her tone guarded.

  Samuel shifted uncomfortably, his eyes darting between Cra and the shadowed figure of Edith behind her. "I overheard you two talking about leaving," he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. "I can help."

  Cra's eyes narrowed. "Why would you help us?"

  He sighed, running a hand through his unkempt hair. "Because I know what it's like to feel trapped. And... I owe you, Cra. For covering my shifts when I was ill."

  Edith stepped forward, her presence commanding despite the uncertainty etched on her face. "How can you help?"

  Samuel gnced over his shoulder before producing a small pouch from his coat pocket. He handed it to Cra. The weight of coins inside was unmistakable.

  "There's enough there for train fare and some extra," he expined. "I also have a friend who works the night shift at the station. He can get you on a freight train heading north. No questions asked."

  Cra's breath caught in her throat. The offer was almost too good to be true. "Why are you doing this?" she asked, suspicion coloring her words.

  Samuel offered a sad smile. "Everyone deserves a chance at freedom."

  Edith pced a hand on Cra's arm, grounding her. "We accept," she said firmly.

  Samuel nodded. "Be ready by midnight. Meet me by the back entrance."

  As quickly as he had appeared, Samuel disappeared into the night, leaving Cra and Edith alone once more.

  The weight of their decision settled heavily upon them. They packed their few belongings in silence, the gravity of their impending departure rendering words unnecessary.

  As the clock struck midnight, they slipped out into the cool night air, their breaths visible in the dim glow of the gas mps. Samuel awaited them as promised, his expression unreadable.

  "This way," he whispered, leading them through a byrinth of alleys toward the station.

  The journey was a blur of shadows and whispered instructions. Before they knew it, they were nestled among crates in the back of a freight car, the rhythmic cnking of the train wheels a lulby of liberation.

  Cra reached for Edith's hand, their fingers entwining in the darkness. The future was uncertain, but together, they would face it head-on.

  As the train carried them away from the soot-stained streets of Birmingham, Cra allowed herself a rare moment of hope. The ashes of her rebellion had ignited a new fme—one that burned brightly with the promise of freedom and love.

  VII

  The days that followed blurred into a fragile sort of calm. Cra and Edith worked the looms in rhythm, fingers nimble, words scarce. They didn’t speak of what happened in the attic. It hung between them like steam off a kettle—warm, dangerous, impossible to hold.

  At night, they'd lie on their narrow beds, breath syncing through the thin silence. Cra would turn toward the wall, pretending not to feel Edith’s gaze drifting her way, and Edith would pretend not to ache for something she couldn’t name.

  But on the fifth night, it was Cra who broke.

  “We can’t stay here,” she whispered, voice barely louder than a sigh. “They’ll find me. Him, or someone like him.”

  Edith didn’t ask who “he” was. She didn’t need to. Her eyes flinched like she already knew. “Where would we even go?”

  Cra sat up, bones sharp beneath her nightgown. “North. Or west. Maybe to Liverpool. I’ve heard they don’t ask questions there. Just need hands for the docks.”

  Edith frowned. “We’d be no one.”

  “Exactly,” Cra said, voice harder now. “No name means no past. Just work and cold and… freedom.”

  A pause. Then, gently: “You’d really leave everything?”

  “What’s here to keep?” Cra shot back. “A ghost of a house and a city that never gave a damn if I lived or died?”

  Edith’s breath caught, but she didn’t argue.

  Instead, she reached across the small gap between the beds and touched Cra’s hand. “Then I’ll come too.”

  It shouldn’t have meant as much as it did. But Cra turned her palm upward and held on.

  They spent the next few days making quiet pns. Edith filched coins from the till at the shop. Cra bartered her few belongings—a comb, her mother’s locket, the good boots—for a cheap traveling cloak and worn gloves.

  On the sixth night, the weaver caught them whispering in the storeroom and asked too many questions. By morning, they were gone.

  They didn’t take the main road. Too risky. They cut through the fields, following the fog as it curled over stone walls and grazing sheep, walking with heads down and hoods up.

  It was muddy, and cold, and Edith’s boots gave her blisters. But Cra never stopped moving. She walked like the world would catch her if she dared pause.

  And still, it caught up.

  On the eighth day, just outside a forgotten vilge with only one tavern and a half-rotten church, Cra woke up to find Edith gone.

  She bolted upright from the bedroll, heart leaping to her throat. “Edith?”

  Nothing.

  Only the quiet groan of morning wind through brittle trees.

  Cra scrambled to her feet, boots still half-ced, and tore through the brush. She found her a mile down the path, sitting on a stump, coat wrapped tight, staring at the rising sun.

  “You ran,” Cra breathed, chest heaving.

  “I thought about it,” Edith said softly. “But I didn’t.”

  Cra stepped closer. “Why?”

  Edith didn’t look at her. “Because you’d follow.”

  Silence stretched between them.

  Cra finally sat beside her, knees tucked to her chest. “You regret it?”

  “No.”

  And then, after a beat: “But I’m scared.”

  “Me too.”

  Edith leaned her head on Cra’s shoulder. “Do you think we’ll make it?”

  Cra didn’t answer. Not right away.

  Then she said, “I don’t think anyone makes it, not really. But we can try.”

  Edith nodded, just once.

  They reached Liverpool two weeks ter. It was louder, dirtier, and colder than Cra expected—but there was work. At a textiles warehouse near the docks, they were hired without questions. Two girls with calloused hands and no family? No one cared. Not in Liverpool.

  They shared a room above the bakery. Damp walls. Stiff sheets. Rats in the hall. But it was theirs.

  For a time, they were okay.

  For a time.

  VIII

  It started with Edith’s cough.

  A dry, persistent thing that tickled at first—brushed off with a ugh and a “must be the dust from the cloth rolls.” She’d wave it away, rub her chest, and carry on folding linen or hauling crates like always.

  But Cra noticed.

  She noticed how it got worse after rain. How Edith’s hands started trembling when she tried to thread the loom. How her cheeks flushed too hot even on freezing mornings.

  “You need rest,” Cra murmured one night, wiping sweat from Edith’s brow. “You need a doctor.”

  Edith gave her a wan smile. “We can’t afford one.”

  Cra bit the inside of her cheek. “Then I’ll steal it.”

  “Don’t,” Edith whispered. “Please don’t go back to that.”

  But Cra already had. That night, after Edith fell into a fitful sleep, Cra crept out with a scarf wrapped tight around her face. She lifted a silver brooch from a butcher’s wife. A pouch of coin from a drunk passed out in an alley. She sold it all to a man who never asked names.

  She bought medicine from another who never looked her in the eye.

  But none of it worked.

  Edith stopped eating.

  Stopped standing without help.

  One morning, Cra found her colpsed beside the washbasin, thin frame curled up like a broken bird. Blood on her lips.

  Cra carried her back to the bed and didn’t let go.

  The world shrank.

  There were no more docks, no more wages, no more weaving.

  Just Cra, curled in that freezing room beside a girl who used to ugh like wind through tall grass. She read to her from a book they’d stolen months ago—poems neither of them fully understood, but the rhythm was enough.

  On the sixth day, Edith reached for Cra’s hand.

  “You know I love you, don’t you?”

  Cra’s throat closed. She nodded.

  “I always did,” Edith whispered. “Even before I knew what it meant.”

  Cra pressed her lips to her knuckles. “I love you too.”

  Edith closed her eyes.

  The next morning, she was cold.

  The bakery girl found Cra still holding her. Arms locked. Face bnk.

  She didn’t scream. Didn’t cry.

  She just sat there until they pulled her away.

  The baker offered to pay for a pine box.

  Cra refused.

  She stole one instead.

  The grave was shallow. The earth hard with frost. Cra dug it herself, hands raw and bleeding, breath coming in sobs she wouldn’t let out.

  She buried Edith beneath a twisted tree by the river, where the wind always whispered and wildflowers pushed up through cracked soil.

  She left no marker.

  But every week after, she came back. Sat in the grass and whispered the stories Edith loved. Read the old poems. Left pieces of cloth she'd embroidered.

  Until one day, she stopped coming.

  Word spread months ter of a girl with a soot-streaked face and a switchbde in her coat who robbed Dominion railcars and vanished into smoke.

  They said she wore a red thread tied around her wrist.

  And on the really foggy nights, when the wind howled off the Mersey, dockhands swore they saw her by the twisted tree—murmuring a name, over and over, until dawn broke and she vanished again.

  The weeks following Edith's death blurred into a haze of grief and survival. Cra moved through Liverpool's fog-choked streets like a wraith, her once-defiant spirit dulled by sorrow. The docks, with their cacophony of cnging metal and shouting men, became both her refuge and her torment.

  She found work where she could—mending nets, hauling cargo—tasks that demanded everything physical and left nothing for the mind to dwell upon. The bor was grueling, the pay meager, but it kept her hands busy and her thoughts at bay.

  Yet, the city had its own rhythm, its own undercurrents. Liverpool in 1842 was a city teeming with life and vice in equal measure. The docks were not just hubs of commerce but also breeding grounds for illicit activities. Gangs like the High Rip Gang held sway in the shadows, their influence seeping into every crevice of dockside life. These groups, known for their brutality, often coerced dock workers into their ranks or exploited them for their own gains.

  Cra kept her distance from such elements, her focus solely on survival. But the weight of isotion bore heavily upon her. The room above the bakery felt cavernous without Edith's presence. Nights were the hardest. Sleep became a luxury she could scarcely afford, haunted as she was by memories and the ever-present ache of loss.

  One evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, casting the city in hues of amber and shadow, Cra sat by the river's edge near the twisted tree where Edith rested. The water pped gently against the embankment, a soothing lulby to the turmoil within her.

  She pulled her tattered cloak tighter around her shoulders, the chill seeping into her bones. From her pocket, she retrieved a small, worn book—one of the few possessions she hadn't pawned or bartered. It was the poetry collection she and Edith had often read together.

  Flipping through the pages, her eyes settled on a familiar verse:

  "In the quiet of the night, when all souls rest, I seek the one whom my heart loves best."

  The words blurred as tears welled up, spilling over onto the fragile pages. She clutched the book to her chest, rocking slightly, the dam of her emotions breaking free.

  "Edith," she whispered into the gathering darkness, "I don't know how to do this without you."

  The wind carried her words away, offering no soce, only the empty expanse of the night.

  Days turned into weeks, and Cra's existence became a monotonous cycle of work and solitude. The city moved around her, vibrant and unyielding, but she remained detached, a mere observer.

  One rainy afternoon, as she sought shelter under the eaves of a warehouse, a familiar voice broke through her reverie.

  "Cra Wren, as I live and breathe."

  She turned sharply, coming face to face with Samuel Tate, an old acquaintance from Birmingham. His once-boyish face was now hardened, etched with lines that spoke of a life hard-lived.

  "Samuel," she acknowledged cautiously.

  He stepped closer, eyeing her with a mix of surprise and something else—pity, perhaps.

  "Heard about your father," he began, hesitating. "And Edith."

  Cra's jaw tightened. "Old news."

  Samuel nodded, sensing her reluctance. "Look, I know times are tough. Liverpool's not kind to those without... connections."

  She eyed him warily. "And you're offering?"

  He shrugged, a nonchant gesture that didn't reach his eyes. "Work. Steady pay. Protection."

  Cra scoffed softly. "At what cost?"

  Samuel's gaze hardened. "Loyalty. And a willingness to do what's necessary."

  The implication was clear. Aligning with Samuel meant entanglement in the very underworld she had avoided.

  "I'll think about it," she said, turning away.

  "Don't think too long," he called after her. "Opportunities like this don't wait."

  That night, sleep eluded her once more. Samuel's offer gnawed at her. The promise of stability was tempting, but the price was steep.

  She rose before dawn, the city still cloaked in darkness. Wrapping her cloak tightly around her, she made her way to the docks, the familiar scent of salt and industry filling her senses.

  As she approached the warehouse district, she noticed a commotion. A group of men huddled together, their voices hushed but urgent.

  Curiosity piqued, she edged closer, staying within the shadows.

  "It's happening tonight," one man whispered. "The shipment from Dublin. High stakes."

  Another grunted in response. "We need all hands. No mistakes."

  Cra's pulse quickened. This was more than mere dock work; this was smuggling—a dangerous game with deadly consequences.

  She stepped back, her mind racing. Samuel's offer suddenly took on a more sinister hue.

  Determined, she made her way back to her lodging. She needed to leave Liverpool. The city held too many ghosts and too many dangers.

  Packing her few belongings, she paused by the small mirror above the washbasin. The reflection that met her was one she scarcely recognized—haunted eyes, hollow cheeks, a visage marked by sorrow and hardship.

  IX

  The river no longer hissed.

  The storm had passed, leaving behind a strange calm that felt unearned. The kind of silence that pressed on the skin, heavy and close, like a secret no one dared speak.

  Cra Wren sat at the edge of the docks, motionless. Her cloak had dried stiff against her back, the wind turning the hem into stiff creases. Beneath it, tucked carefully in her p, was a small brown paper packet—creased at the corners, faint red stamp on the side. The apothecary’s mark.

  Rat poison.

  She hadn’t stolen it. She’d paid for it with the st of her coin, handed over without a word, eyes bnk, voice lost somewhere back in that alleyway where Edith’s name still lived in the cracks of the stone.

  The paper rustled faintly when the wind shifted, like a breath trying to be heard.

  She hadn’t opened it yet.

  Her thumb traced the edge of the packet, mindlessly. She remembered the way Edith used to fold parchment, tidy little triangles. The kind you tuck into the corners of drawers with pressed flowers inside.

  But there was no flower here. No scent of rosemary or flour-dusted ughter. Just a bitter, gray powder that could end her thoughts in one swallow.

  She closed her eyes.

  In the dark behind her lids, Edith came clearer than ever. Not as a memory, but a feeling—warm fingers against her cheek, voice low and pyful, a touch on the wrist that lingered a second too long.

  “Don’t be brave for anyone but yourself.”

  Cra’s breath caught.

  The fog began to creep back over the river, curling in tendrils that reached toward the shore like fingers searching for something they’d lost.

  She opened her eyes.

  The city stretched behind her, blurred by distance and the weight of her silence. In front of her, only the water and the wind.

  She didn’t cry.

  She didn’t speak.

  She didn’t move.

  The paper remained in her p, unopened. Or maybe it wasn’t. Maybe it was already empty. No one watching would be able to say for sure.

  Cra Wren sat still.

  Eyes wide open.

  Looking out at the gray water as though she could see straight through it, to the other side of something none of us could name.

  And in the stillness, she remained.

  Unmoving.

  Unknowable.

  Unforgettable.

  THE EΝD- nullnvoid