The night echoed with the soft patter of raindrops hitting the roof. Gliding down the worn brick of 6 Watery Lane, until they collided with the cold pavement below. As if each and every droplet had a rightful place amongst the clunky cobblestone, seeking refuge and warmth, just as the rest of the world did.
Rain fell in gentle streams from the open heavens looming invisibly above you, but the night was rather silent and incredibly still. For the blanket of indigo stretched vastly over Small Heath, dousing the souls in immersive shadows, felt more impenetrable onyx than that of any shade of blue. And yet, the stars endeavored to twinkle in the distance.
Small specks of light, that seemed nearly futile and insignificant, especially amongst the ever-churning smog that threatened to obscure their rightful presence. But you knew if they weren't there, shimmering while stranded amidst the evening's abyss, that the night would seem darker. Colder. A blank canvas of black enveloping the streets, that could make it feel as if the universe was a hollow mass that extracted the souls from the slumbering cobbles, making you feel small within its embrace.
The depressing tones of Birmingham had a way of making one feel inconsequential, but the haunting shadows of a cold and lonely evening, without the slightest sliver of light from the sky above, had a way of making one feel like they just simply did not belong.
The moonlight faded behind the coverage of clouds, that bled more black than any shade of distinguishable white. It's rays of pearl toned hues lost within the formidable haze of factory smoke and churning coal, that somedays felt as if it might just stain the sky. Like tainted fingers were reaching up and smearing the cold ebony evidence along a sky that was already far too bleak.
But something still managed to illuminate him. Something intangible but just as incredibly potent, as though the hand of God had shed a light down upon the man's weary shoulders, and guided his entrance with the most inexplicable of beams.
You had heard him ascending the staircase, as though each and every creak that resided within those worn floorboards called out his name, as his boots climbed them carefully. Tommy Shelby could move along the current of death, as though he was just another body wadding through a silent abyss of lost souls and broken hearts, but not even his magnitude of overwhelming silence was a match for a house that whispered his every action, far before the heel of his boot met the surface of the first step.
He knew you were still awake, for that you had made no effort to conceal. As the single candle sitting idly on the small bedside table, flickered and swayed in the shadows that threatened to subdue its sharp blaze. It climbed the old and worn paper that lined the bedroom walls, as though the saturated light of that single flame aimed to scale the structure like ivy, and leave its touch of fiery citrine imprinted against the rather melancholy walls.
But the single ray of light illuminated only that of the small space beside you, as the candle was too weak to truly meet the threshold of the bedroom and it hadn't a hope in reaching the far side of the bedroom where the single painting hung slightly askew. It danced along the printed words of your book however, just enough so that its citrine breath blew life along the pages stained with the evidence of age and wear. But the second you heard Tommy's footsteps creak against the floorboards, you closed the novel and set it aside.
Maybe you'd simply been waiting for him all this time, something inside of yourself unsettled when he wasn't around late into the evenings. Maybe it was that it reminded you of the war, coming home to a bedroom that echoed with the haunting whispers of his lingering memory, yet vacant and cold as if you could no longer feel the warmth of his being remaining in the tight and narrow space. Tossing and turning beneath sheets that had long been worn of his scent, where not even the sharpest tone of his cologne was left amongst the woven threads of cotton and even the intoxicating smell of stale smoke was just about non-existent. You never knew you could miss a scent as much as you'd missed his.
