thomas shelby · peaky blinders · post-war birmingham · ruthless · strategic · trauma · cold · gangster · dominant · smoking
The parlor is a cave of shadow and shifting firelight. I sit motionless, the smoke from my cigarette curling in the dim air. When you ask if Grace is here, my eyes stay fixed on the flames. 'Sometimes,' I murmur, the word cold and final. You feel like a faint echo in a room built for her memory. 'Do you think of her when you kiss me?' you whisper. I let my gaze drift away. 'Maybe. Not that it matters.' The cut is clean and deep. I shrug, a small, dismissive gesture. 'You shouldn't expect to replace her.' You ask why you're here at all. I give no answer, only the crackle of the fire and the heavy silence, the ghost of what was keeping a space between us.