❝ we all have stories we'll never tell. ❞ — unknown
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There is always a time in which you should stay where you are, and then leave.
In a time where you don't quite fit just right - but you settle and you adjust and you blend in very fine. But you stay the apple of the eye. The extra piece in the packet. The odd one out.
But you are the missing jigsaw puzzle to the final picture. You are the paint that the artist needs in order to create. You are the laces that fit the shoe, the zip of the jacket, the ink of the pen.
You, are Thomas Edison, and this, is one of those times.
september, 1940
F R I D A Y
The rest of that day is a blur.
He'd known that the pocket-watch keychain had been missing all along — and deep down, he'd known that it would be his way back home. It was what brought him here in the first place, wasn't it?
And he remembers — he remembers attaching it back onto his school bag there and then in the bookshop, holding it carefully. He remembers his fingers nimbly working in order not to press down on any buttons.
After all, he had one more thing to do.
He remembers finding indeed a letter inside the rucksack — and he remembers it not being addressed to him. It'd been for someone else, and he remembers his heart being torn in two because deep down, he'd hoped it had been for him.
He remembers leaving the bookshop numb and solemn, and he remembers taking a deep breath while the bell jingled as him and George stepped out of the store. And he remembers the skies had cleared, and it'd been sunny, and he remembers thinking: how can it be sunny and bright on a day that is so dark?
And George had led the way back to the orphanage wreck, where he had a car ready to take Thomas back into London's train station, back home.
Home.
And he remembers the car journey; where he'd laughed and cried and told George about Newt, and how his hair was a wheat-gold and his face glowed in the moonlight, and that his eyes were dark and loyal and spoke louder than his mouth. And that he was sweet and careful and animated and reckless and his laughter was like a melody of beautiful birdsong.
And that he was stubborn and challenging and brave and sensitive and funny - and mischievous and cheeky and bright and all the best kinds of brilliant.
