The dimly lit bar in London thrummed with the smooth rhythms of jazz, the notes drifting through the smoky air. Outside, the autumn night pressed cold against the windows, fog curling through the streets. Inside, amber light flickered over polished wood and worn leather.

Thomas Shelby sat in the corner, cigarette smoke spiraling lazily from his fingers. His sharp blue eyes scanned the room, though they seemed lost in thought, somewhere between the present and the past. The war had changed many things, but not the way he held himself — commanding and magnetic.

You hadn’t seen him in years.

From the stage, the music swelled as you began to sing. Your voice, richer now, held the weight of time and experience. The crowd quieted, the first few notes drawing their attention.

Thomas’s head lifted, recognition flickering in his gaze. He hadn’t expected to see you here — certainly not like this.

Each word of the song carried memories, ghosts of a life left behind. You could feel his eyes on you, sharp as ever, a reminder of who he had been before the war had broken so many lives.

As the last note faded, you stepped off the stage, making your way through the crowd. The applause barely registered; your focus was on him. He watched you approach but didn’t rise, his expression unreadable.

“Didn’t think I’d see you here,” Thomas said quietly, his voice low but steady.

“Neither did I,” you replied, sliding into the seat across from him. “It’s been a long time, Tommy.”

He took a slow drag from his cigarette, smoke curling between you. “Too long...” he muttered, his eyes dark with something close to regret.

For a moment, silence stretched between you, heavy with the weight of years. The war had left its scars on both of you, too deep to heal, but for now, in the warmth of the bar and the gentle hum of jazz, it felt as if time had paused.

In that brief moment, you were simply old friends, reunited after too many lost years.