It was a quiet night in Stratford. A thick layer of clouds had muffled the light of the moon, casting darkness onto the streets below. A small stray dog wandered around St. John's church, snuffling through the autumn leaves in pursuit of food. The dog paused in his search, lifting his head and growling at an empty space in front of him. With a sudden echoing bang, the space in question was filled with the rather disheveled figure of young man. The dog yelped before skidding off into an alley and the man brushed off his wrinkled trench coat.
After ensuring that his clothes were in order, he set off down the street. His shadow stretched out onto the pavement as he slipped in and out of the light of the streetlamps. He walked for a few blocks, muttering the street numbers under his breath.
"Two forty-eight, two fifty, ah! Two fifty-two." He had paused in front of a small brick flat with white shutters. The man pulled out a crumpled note from a pocket in his coat and gave it a glance before heading into the building.
The main hallway of the flat was rather dingy. The single light at the top of the stairs flickered a sickly green. The man ignored a small beetle that had been flipped on its back and headed up to the first landing. He checked his note once more before rapping sharply on the door to 1A.
There was the sound of an infant giving a startled whine, and then some shuffling behind the door. A woman's voice could be heard shushing the child. The door opened to reveal a young woman clutching a baby to her chest. She bounced the child gently as she regarded the man in front of her wearily.
The woman was quite lovely, with warm brown eyes and smooth, dark skin. She looked worn out, the bags under her eyes revealing a tiredness beyond that of a new parent. But something about her, perhaps her posture or the graceful curve of her neck, made her seem like a person who should not be trifled with.
"May I help you?" she asked flatly. The man cleared his throat.
"Are you Mrs. Abigail Thomas?"
"I am." She paused, narrowing her eyes at the young man. "And you are…?"
"Ah, yes. I am John Dawlish. I worked with your husband."
Abigail gave a dissatisfied hum.
"If you're looking for him here you're out of luck. I haven't seen him since two months ago."
"Actually, Mrs. Thomas, I came to talk to you. I'm afraid I have some rather terrible news."
"He's dead, isn't he." It wasn't a question. Although Abigail spoke with conviction, beneath her words was a tremble in her voice.
"I- yes." Dawlish steeled himself for her reaction. This was the first time he had been sent on such ministry business and he wasn't quite sure what to expect. Abigail seemed to have gone mute. She looked down at her son who she cradled in her arms. He shared the same warm skin and brown eyes. He looked unblinkingly at his mother, as though he understood the situation completely.
She turned back to Dawlish and nodded, pursing her lips together.
"Is that all, then?"
Dawlish frowned slightly. He had been expecting more of a reaction, perhaps a fit of tears or a fainting spell. Instead, he found himself echoing her nod.
"That's all."
"Thank you, Mr. Dawlish." She closed the door rather suddenly in his face. Dawlish blinked, wondering if that had gone terribly or as well as he could have hoped. After a moment, he turned on his heel and left the flat's dingy hallway.
Inside, Abigail stood frozen at the door. Her son made a tiny gurgling noise, reaching for a loose braid of his mother's hair. She squeezed her eyes shut before looking down at him again.
"I suppose it's just us now, Dean."