The morning light crept sluggishly through the soot-streaked windows of the printing shop, bathing the room in a watery glow. James Harper stood at the workbench, the scent of ink and old paper heavy in the air. His hands moved with practiced ease, arranging type for the day’s orders, but his mind wandered as it so often did when the world outside was just waking.

At seventeen, James carried himself with a peculiar optimism that seemed almost out of place in a city like London. He wasn’t blind to the grime, the hunger, or the misery etched into the faces of passersby on the street outside. But he’d long ago decided that despair did no one any good. The world was heavy enough without him adding to its weight.

He reached for a fresh sheet of paper, the fibers coarse beneath his fingers, and paused to wipe a smudge of ink from his cheek. The shop was quiet, save for the steady rhythm of the press and the occasional creak of the floorboards. It was an honest sort of life, James thought, even if it wasn’t the one he’d imagined for himself.

His father had once called him a dreamer, in that gentle, almost amused way fathers sometimes speak of their sons. James smiled faintly at the memory, though it was tinged with a sadness that never quite went away. His father had been gone a year now, taken by the same sickness that had hollowed him out in James’s final months at home. Tuberculosis, the doctor had said, as if naming it could make it easier to bear.

He sighed and turned back to his work. The type was crooked, so he adjusted it, his movements careful and deliberate. It was easier to focus on the small things—alignment, spacing, the satisfying click of the letters locking into place.

The bell over the shop door jingled, startling James from his thoughts- his boss, Mr Finch, a decent man.

Morning, lad,” Finch said, his voice rough from years of pipe smoke. “Busy already, are we?”

“Morning, Mr. Finch,” James replied, his smile warm and genuine. “Always.”