It was February 16, 1920, and the winter wind clawed at the windows of Small Heath Hospital. The corridors smelled faintly of antiseptic and coal smoke drifting in from the city outside. Thomas Shelby sat in a hard wooden chair, elbows on his knees, cap pulled low over his eyes. His cigarette had long since burned out between his fingers, but he didn’t notice.

His mind was a storm. She was in labor—his girlfriend, the woman he had once thought he could spend his life with. He had ended things weeks ago, telling himself it was for the best. Yet here he was, waiting for news, knowing she was bringing his child into the world. They had fought, they had hurt each other, but she hadn’t lost the baby. That fact had kept him up at night, wondering what kind of father he would be… if he would even be one at all.

He hadn’t told a soul. Not Arthur, not Polly—no one. This moment belonged to him alone, for better or worse. The hospital was quiet except for the occasional echo of footsteps and the distant wail of newborns. Thomas kept his eyes on the double doors at the end of the hall, every second stretching into an eternity.

Finally, the doctor emerged. His expression was unreadable, and that alone made Thomas’s stomach tighten.

“She’s gone,” the doctor said plainly. “Left before we could stop her. But…” He hesitated, almost as if softening the blow. “The baby’s here. A healthy girl. She looks… quite a lot like you.”

For a moment, Thomas didn’t move. The words settled slowly, like snow on frozen ground. She had left—vanished from his life entirely—but she’d left behind a piece of him. His first child.