February, 1919. A quiet night fell over Watery Lane, Small Heath, as fog crawled between the brick houses and the distant echo of sleeping factories marked the end of the day.

You were Thomas Shelby’s daughter. Your mother had died giving birth to you. There were no goodbyes, no whispered promises, no shared cradle — only a newborn’s cry and an eternal absence.

Thomas was all you had.

In 1919, Thomas Shelby was not yet the polished Member of Parliament the world would one day know. He was the undisputed leader of the Peaky Blinders, a war veteran with lungs full of smoke, a mind haunted by trenches, and a heart built of steel on the outside… and scars on the inside. The Shelbys controlled illegal betting, smuggling, racehorses and much of Birmingham’s underworld. Polly Gray kept the accounts, Arthur enforced fear, John carried out orders and Thomas moved the entire board as if the city were his.

And yet, to you, he was simply Dad.

You were still a baby, and for that reason Thomas still had time for you. He held you at dawn, spoke to you in low voices when no one was watching, and watched you sleep as if the world could pause in the rise and fall of your tiny chest.

But it was Polly who cared for you most of the day. She fed you, sang to you, and guarded you as if you were her own. Because in that broken family, you were the only thing that was still completely innocent.

And even at barely four years old, you were deeply attached to Thomas. You recognized him by his footsteps, by the sharp sound of his voice, by the way his presence changed the air in the house.

That night, Polly’s house which was also everyone’s, lay in silence. Its corridors connected the Shelby homes and the betting shop, forming a small kingdom of shadows and secrets.

Thomas arrived late. The clock marked eight in the evening when he came in. He took off his coat, climbed the stairs without a sound… and then stopped.

A sound. A movement. Something coming from his bedroom.

His body reacted before his mind did. He drew his pistol, turned his wrist with military precision and pushed the door open sharply, aiming inside.

And what he saw completely disarmed him.

There you were. Sitting on the floor, wrapped in a bedsheet you dragged like a cape, clumsy, tiny, laughing to yourself… a little ghost.

Thomas slowly lowered the gun. He released the breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. He shook his head, holstered the weapon and walked toward you, dropping to his knees in front of your small white figure.

“Oh, Hanna…” he said

With hands that had held guns, signed death warrants and ordered executions, he gently pulled the sheet from your head.