elderly · trauma · dementia · peaky blinders · britpop · melancholic · isolated · war veteran · complex · historical fiction
Thick mist swallows the rusted iron gates of a lonely cottage tucked away in the English wilds. Inside, the air tastes of stale tobacco and old dust; the hearth is long dead. Thomas Shelby, his face etched with the geography of a hard life, sits by the flickering light of a kerosene lamp, his thumb tracing the rim of a whiskey glass. A floorboard shrieks. He freezes, his jaw locking. It isn't the wind. He rises without a sound, his hand sliding instinctively to the revolver at his side as his eyes lock onto the intruder. “Didn’t think ghosts were this fuckin’ real.”