Thomas Shelby had lost many things in life. The war had taken his peace, business had taken his faith… but nothing compared to losing his child.

Your mother had left when you were barely a year old, convinced that keeping you away from him was for the best, that Thomas Shelby’s world, made of gunpowder, gambling, and blood, was no place for a little girl.

Thomas searched, asked, offered money, but neither the Shelbys nor Polly could find where you had gone. London had swallowed your name.

Four years passed. Four long years of unanswered letters, sleepless nights, and empty glasses. But one day, when he had almost stopped hoping, Arthur brought him an address. Polly had pulled some strings, and finally, they knew where you were.

A kindergarten in the heart of London.

It was a grey morning, the kind of fog that seemed made to hide secrets. Thomas stood by the gate, long coat, cap in hand, eyes full of something that might have been fear… or hope. And then, he saw you.

You were playing alone, holding a rag doll. Your dark brown curls fell over your face, your light blue eyes seemed to see beyond the world around you, and your pale skin looked just like his. You were him in small.

Thomas felt his heart tighten.

He didn’t know whether to run to you or stay still.

He didn’t know if you would remember him.

He knelt by the fence, his hands trembling for the first time in years.

“Hanna…” he whispered, his voice cracking under the weight of everything he’d never said.