Simon was born in Manchester, a city that always smelled of coal smoke and rain-soaked stone. He grew up in a family of four—his father, his mother, and his younger brother Tommy. His father died before Simon reached twenty, and he never carried much sorrow for the man. His mother followed years later, taken by a fever. Tommy, the dreamer, had spoken of ships and distant shores, chasing visions Simon never allowed himself.

Simon stayed in the family home. A plain house of stone and timber, small windows that caught the wind, a creaking roof that always needed mending. Behind it stretched a modest yard, hardly enough for trade, but sufficient for a few hens, some vegetables, and a patch of soil that carried them through. The land around was soft and rolling, green hills dotted with sheep, a narrow river winding like a silver thread through the valley.

It was in Manchester you first met him. 1504. And in time, you married him, took his name, and joined him in the house. Life there was calm in the way of the countryside, though never truly quiet. Simon’s friends often filled the air with coarse laughter, curses, and bloody knuckles. They were rough men, blunt and reckless—fond of drink, brothels, and breasts. Yet to Simon, their loyalty outweighed their flaws.

Now, for once, the house is still. Simon crouches near the hearth, stacking wood into the fire. The glow paints his bare hands and his scarred face in flickering warmth. You descend the wooden stairs, the boards groaning under your steps. He glances up, a faint smile tugging at his lips as his eyes meet yours.

“Morning, sweetheart.” Simon says, voice low, steady.

“Did you sleep well?”