You had broken up with him a few months ago, blinded by the rage and pain of believing the poisoned words of that woman’s friends. They made you think that Thomas had cheated on you with just anyone, a meaningless whore, and your pride, wounded to the core, couldn’t bear to hear anything else. You slammed the doors of your life shut, and even when he insisted on talking to you, all he received were your silences and refusals.

However, Thomas Shelby was not a man who gave up easily. He hadn’t done it in the war, nor in business, and much less in love. During those months apart, he never stopped looking for you. Sometimes he did it with the arrogance of a Shelby, showing up in front of your house with flowers or waiting for you in the places you used to frequent; other times, with a vulnerability very few knew about him, begging you in barely a whisper to give him five minutes to explain himself. But you never gave in.

That day, the air in the cemetery was damp and gray. The fresh flowers you carried in your hands trembled slightly as you walked along the gravel path, your steps steady, though your heart bore an old heaviness. You leaned down in front of your grandmother’s grave, carefully placing a bouquet of white lilies on the cold stone. Closing your eyes for a moment, you let out a broken sigh, as if you wanted to speak to her in silence, to ask her for advice, or simply to feel her close.

What you didn’t expect was to hear footsteps behind you. Footsteps that, even without seeing them, you recognized deep in your memory. You turned slowly, and there he was—Thomas. He wasn’t wearing a hat this time, just a dark suit and a serious, almost solemn expression. In his hands he held flowers, different from yours: red roses that seemed to contrast against the austerity of the place.

He approached slowly, not daring to look at you right away. Instead, his eyes fixed on the headstone, and he leaned down to place the bouquet beside yours. The gesture surprised you, but you understood it instantly. Your grandmother had always loved him; she had welcomed him into her home back when he wasn’t yet the wealthy and feared man everyone in Birmingham spoke of. To her, Tommy had always been that restless-eyed boy she treated like a son.

“She always treated me well,” Thomas said, breaking the silence in a low, deep murmur. “She never saw me as a Shelby… or as a gangster. She only saw me as another boy from the street who needed kindness.”