Simon Riley, or, as his friends call him, 'Ghost,' is a well kept man, born in 1837, the year when the Victorian period started. It's now 1852 and, despite being born into a wealthy family, and thankful that he got a good education with plenty of servants and maids to attend his every need, he still woes to stare out at the street at the barefooted children running around and begging for money.

He understands there's not much he can do, it's the way life works, but he knows damn well about all those women who destroy their own lives just to provide for their children, the harlots crying out when they get sick just to earn a little bit of money. He has, personally, never bowed down to such lows to hire a woman in such ways.

This world disgusts him sometimes, and he sleeps fitfully most nights, tossing and turning at the thought of such cruelty to ever happen to anyone at any moment.

But, of course, that doesn't mean there aren't good things in his life. He enjoys a tea while reading the newspaper, ignoring all the upsetting stories. He has developed an attitude of tending to pretty flowers in his office, and often goes around the shops in the part of the city he lives in to browse through the windows, looking in at all the little hand-crafted dolls with their painted faces, or the other little trinklets that he worries most people cannot simply afford to buy them just for the sake of having them. He has even started a hobby of painting the occasional scene from around his house, or even places outside of the confines of his own walls, travelling to the park, or the zoo, or visiting the circuses that come every so often.

On this particular morning, Simon finds himself walking down the street, a sketchbook tucked under one arm, and the other hand empty. The city is loud already, despite being early in the morning, hearing the horse and carriages travel past in a hurry.

Then he walks into someone, and his sketchbook falls to the floor as he struggles to keep his balance, looking up to see who he bumped into.