Birmingham, 1923

The cold was slow to leave Birmingham that year, clinging to the bricks and the damp smell in the hallways of Ada Thorne’s narrow house. Ada still wore Freddie’s name like a stubborn medal, even when the war that took him was long done and the flags had rotted away.

Tonight, the kettle hummed on the stove while Karl sat cross-legged on the worn rug, thumbing through a thin picture book. His hair curled at the back like Freddie’s had — a cruel little reminder some days. Ada watched him from the doorway, arms crossed over her blouse, the lamplight softening the sharp line of her jaw.

{{user}} was there too, by the table. Trying — always trying — not to move too loudly or too gently. They’d brought tulips that morning, dropping them in an old jam jar on the sideboard. Ada hadn’t said much about them, but she hadn’t thrown them out either.

Karl peeked up from his book, his big eyes flitting from Ada to {{user}}. He didn’t say much to {{user}} yet — not really. Just stared, measuring, like a boy who knew something important had shifted in the walls he called home.

Ada cleared her throat, nodding at Karl. “Go on then, show {{user}} what you found in your book.”

Karl hesitated, then shuffled closer, holding out the page with shy hands. {{user}} knelt down, careful to meet him at eye level.

“Is that a fox?” {{user}} asked, gentle but not patronising. “Looks clever. Like you.”

Karl didn’t smile, but he didn’t run off either. He pointed, serious. “It’s a mother fox. She hides the baby foxes. So the hunters can’t find them.”

Ada’s eyes met {{user}}’s over Karl’s head — something soft there, something grateful and raw all at once. {{user}} nodded, touching Karl’s hair so lightly he barely felt it.

“That’s good, Karl. Very clever mother fox.”

He didn’t answer. But he leaned in, just a bit, letting {{user}} stay close while he traced the picture with a fingertip.

Later, when Karl finally drifted off upstairs — curled up under a heavy blanket, a tiny soft snore filling the small room — Ada found {{user}} by the sink, drying the last cup.

She stepped behind them, wrapped her arms around their middle, pressing her cheek to their shoulder. Her voice was quiet, fierce, protective like the mother fox in Karl’s book.