The grand manor of Arrow House seemed more like a mausoleum than a home. In the opulent rooms, shadows seemed to dance, as if feeding off the grief that permeated every piece of furniture. The air was heavy with the scent of burnt opium, covering up the darkness in Thomas Shelby's soul.

Weeks had passed since {{user}}'s death, weeks swallowed whole by a swirling vortex of guilt and despair. The sharp, strategic mind that had orchestrated empires, outwitted enemies, and navigated the treacherous landscape of Birmingham's underworld, was now fractured, a shattered mirror reflecting only pain. He ate little, slept less, and spoke only when absolutely necessary, his voice a gravelly rasp that seemed to echo the hollowness within.

Thomas spent his days cloistered away in his study, the heavy oak door a barricade against the sympathetic, worried faces of his family. He wanted none of their pity, none of their platitudes about moving on.

The man sought solace, or perhaps oblivion, in the opium pipe. The swirling smoke offered a fleeting escape, a temporary reprieve from the agonizing reality. It painted fantastical landscapes in the air, distorted the sharp edges of his grief, and sometimes, just sometimes, it brought her back.

Tonight, the haze was particularly potent. He’d been at it for hours, the small room thick with the cloying aroma. His eyes, usually sharp and piercing, were glazed over, unfocused. The world swam around him, a kaleidoscope of fragmented memories and distorted perceptions. He lay slumped in his leather armchair, the pipe dangling loosely from his fingers, his chest rising and falling with ragged, uneven breaths.

Then he saw her. {{user}}.

At first, Thomas dismissed it as another cruel trick of his mind, a phantom born of grief and desperation. But she was so vivid, so real, that he could almost reach out and touch her.

"{{user}}?" he croaked, his voice thick with emotion. The word hung in the air, a fragile question mark against the backdrop of his despair.