The characters in this fanfic are not my creations but belong to their original author, Jess Cantrell, author of the Gray Matter Series.

While I strive to remain true to my perception of these characters, I may occasionally write pieces that could seem out of character. Please read with grace.


Stephen stepped off the train, the hiss of the engine echoing through the station as he adjusted his hat and smoothed down his cuffs. The humid air carried a faint scent of coal and oil, mingled with the tang of sweat from the throngs of people pressing through the platform. As he moved through the smoke, he blinked against the foggy haze, eyes scanning the bustling scene. Families were reuniting around him—mothers embracing sons in worn coats, fathers tossing children into the air. Friends clapped each other on the back and rushed toward waiting carriages and a few early-model automobiles that bobbed unsteadily along the rutted road nearby. It was a whirlwind of motion, of lives intersecting in brief moments before scattering again into the vastness of the city.

Stephen had always been a self-professed people watcher, a trait born less out of curiosity and more out of his habit of assessing before acting—a survival mechanism born of nervousness. His gaze wandered over the crowd, noting the mix of new arrivals and seasoned locals, all thrown together in the controlled chaos of the Denver station. He caught snippets of conversation—excited introductions, jovial laughter—hanging in the space between hurried goodbyes. It was strange, being in a new city, yet surrounded by the same energy that had propelled him across the country.

But among the sea of faces and moving bodies, Stephen was looking for one person in particular. His eyes skimmed the hats, mostly elegant and clean, but when he spotted a slightly battered bowler—one that had seen better days—he knew immediately. The dumpy hat could have only belonged to Grey Halevy.

With renewed purpose, Stephen hefted his suitcase and leather bag and made his way through the throng, sidestepping dawdling travelers and jostling past crates waiting to be loaded. As he neared his friend, he raised his voice above the clamor of the station.
"Halevy! Grey Halevy!" he called out, but the sound was swallowed by the shriek of the departing train.

The engine's steam puffed and billowed, obscuring the platform for a moment, but when the smoke cleared, Stephen could see the familiar shape of Grey's smile. He quickened his pace, weaving through the thinning crowd until he was by his friend's side, grabbing his arm with a mixture of warmth and relief.

"I didn't think you'd venture across town to meet me," Stephen admitted, shifting the weight of his bags. "It's a good surprise."

Grey waited patiently, the sound of the train dying down before he responded. "We're really not too far from the shop," he said, his voice smooth and steady, as if the last several years of separation had barely passed. He smiled more broadly. "But it's good to hear your voice again, Stephen."

Stephen chuckled, the tension in his shoulders easing. "You couldn't get rid of me for too long." He glanced around the now-sparser platform, where porters were gathering up the last of the luggage, and a few stragglers still milled about.

Grey, perceptive as always, didn't miss Stephen's wandering gaze. "Quite a change, isn't it?" he said, tapping his cane lightly as they began to move. "This is the last of the frontier, and it's booming. You'll see. Come on, let's head to the shop—you can fill me in on everything."

They fell into step, Grey leading with practiced ease, quietly tapping out the area in front of him. Stephen watched him for a moment, admiring how effortlessly his friend navigated the world without sight. It was an understated sort of grace, one that Stephen had always admired but never quite grasped.

"Was the train ride alright?" Grey asked, turning his head slightly in Stephen's direction as they crossed the busy street.

Stephen nodded, catching himself, then quickly added aloud, "Yes, the other patrons were pleasant. A few of us did the majority of the trip together, picking up travelers here and there. There's such a movement of people coming out from the East—it surprised me how many were one-way, just like me."

Grey smiled knowingly. "It's the pull of the West. A new start, a new frontier. What did you think of Chicago?"

Stephen exhaled, his mind drifting to the towering buildings and bustling streets of the city. "Pittsburgh, Chicago... all of it. There are so many changes. The buildings are soaring up, roads are being repaved as those new automobiles take over. Even here, I see you've got a few already."

"Shipped in on train cars," Grey said with a grin. "They're amazing to ride in. A marvel of human ingenuity. The Gazette just got a rotary-powered press, too. Revolutionary for communication. I wish I could see it run."

There was a wistful edge to Grey's voice, and Stephen glanced at his friend, catching the flicker of longing. "You'd love it, Grey. It's like watching magic."

Grey's smile was faint but sincere. "I'll take your word for it." He shifted slightly, the conversation turning lighter. "Speaking of changes, how's Emma?"

Stephen chuckled softly. "Emma's perfect, though a bit worn thin. The twins are keeping her busy, and Charles—well, he's the golden boy of the New York medical scene now. It's exhausting just being a bystander."

"And the other Reyburn?" Grey's voice carried a teasing note.

"In recent Sinclair news," Stephen replied dryly, "she's bought herself a bicycle and rides around in trousers just to get a rise out of people. She's both the horror and the delight of society, much to my mother's dismay."

Grey laughed, the sound deep and full of warmth. "That sounds awfully accurate."

As they approached a blue-painted building, Stephen slowed, squinting at the warped glass window. "Is this it?"

"Does it say 'Denver Sentinel'?" Grey asked, his tone mock-serious. "Yes, this is the place."

The shop was cluttered but oddly charming, a chaotic mix of towering presses, trays of type, and rows of tin containers labeled INK. It felt alive, a hub of constant activity, much like the city outside.

Stephen took it all in, the air thick with the smell of paper and metal. "I had no idea this is what you did, Grey. I imagined it differently." It was interesting to say the least that this paper was being run by a blind man.

Grey chuckled. "Come on, I'll show you my quarters—no judging the décor."

They moved through the hidden door, up a drafty stairwell that pitched slightly to the left, and into the loft. It was surprisingly spacious, though cluttered like the shop below. But it felt like home, in a way Stephen hadn't expected.

The fire had been freshly built but unlit, and Stephen could imagine the room coming to life with warmth on a cold Denver night. The walls were adorned with an eclectic array of decorations, just as Grey had warned—everything from a rusty horseshoe to an ornate painting of a river. It was an odd collection, no doubt curated by Mrs. Hummel, Grey's part time housekeeper, but it gave the place a sense of personality.

"Two bedrooms, a common area, nice fireplace," Grey listed, moving through the room as if he'd given the tour a dozen times before. "And surprisingly, indoor plumbing. You won't have to worry about running out to a well at the crack of dawn for water."

Stephen chuckled, shaking his head. "Good to know. I'll be sure to thank Mrs. Hummel when I meet her. I imagine she's the one keeping this place in one piece."

Grey gave a small nod. "She's a saint. I don't know what I'd do without her. She insists I need more 'civilized' touches." He gestured toward the clutter of mismatched furniture and decorations. "I call it character."

Stephen grinned, stepping further into the room and glancing toward the kitchen. It was small but well-equipped, the stove gleaming with fresh polish. "Indoor plumbing and a kitchen like this? I'll admit, I wasn't expecting so much luxury."

Grey raised an eyebrow. "Luxury, is it? You're not much for cooking though, are you?"

Stephen sighed dramatically. "If you count frying an egg or burning toast as cooking, then yes. A culinary genius."

Grey smirked. "Then I suppose one of us will have to learn to cook properly, or we'll both be reduced to ashes before long."

Stephen's chuckle echoed softly in the room. "I wouldn't put it past me to burn water, at this rate."

They moved through the space, and Grey gestured toward the two doors off the common area. "You'll have the second room," he said, tapping his cane lightly as he approached the door. "Mrs. Hummel made the bed up, so it's ready for you. I imagine you're exhausted from the trip."

Stephen glanced toward the door, nodding slightly. The weight of his journey was starting to settle in, his body heavy from the long train ride. He'd felt alive on the platform, buoyed by the energy of the city, but now the fatigue was creeping back. Still, there was a kind of excitement mixed with it—the anticipation of what this new chapter in his life might bring.

"I am," he admitted, setting his suitcase down gently by the door. "And I imagine you've got an early morning, too."

Grey nodded. "The paper doesn't print itself, unfortunately. I have to be up early to make sure everything's in order for tomorrow's edition. We've got a big piece on the new railway expansion coming in."

Stephen leaned back against the doorframe, his gaze drifting to the window where the faint glow of gas lamps from the street below cast long, flickering shadows on the floor. "You really do live in the middle of everything, don't you?"

"It's the only way to stay ahead," Grey said with a faint smile. "This city's growing faster than anyone could've imagined. The frontier's not the wild wilderness it used to be. But it still feels... unfinished. Like there's so much more just over the horizon."

Stephen nodded, understanding the sentiment. Denver was on the cusp of something, a strange melding of the old West and the new industrial age. He could feel it in the air, see it in the way people moved, the way they talked about progress and opportunity. It was exciting, but it also felt unstable, like one wrong step could send the whole thing teetering.

Grey's voice cut through his thoughts. "You'll find your place here, Stephen. It may not be the East, but there's opportunity. It's why I set up shop out here—it's where things are happening."

"I hope you're right," Stephen murmured, though there was a small knot of uncertainty in his chest. He'd made a bold move coming out here, leaving behind the familiar for something entirely unknown. But standing here in the cozy warmth of Grey's loft, it felt like the right choice. He wasn't alone, after all.

Grey clapped him on the back, breaking the moment of silence. "Come on, call it a night. You've got a big day tomorrow—first shift at the hospital, right?"

"Yeah, I report at nine. My first real taste of what this city has to offer."

Grey smirked. "Well, if you survive your first day, we'll celebrate with some... questionable toast."

Stephen laughed, shaking his head. "I'll look forward to it."

With that, Grey made his way toward his own room, but before disappearing through the door, he paused, turning back to Stephen with a wry smile. "You didn't think you could get away from me that easily, did you? I made sure this place had two bedrooms for when you'd inevitably end up on my doorstep. And here you are—destitute."

Stephen rolled his eyes, though his smile betrayed the affection he felt. "Now you're just being mean."

Grey chuckled softly. "Goodnight, Stephen."

"Goodnight, Grey." Stephen watched as his friend disappeared into his room, the door clicking softly behind him.

Alone now, Stephen lingered by the window for a moment longer, looking out over the dimly lit street. The city was quieting down, the hum of activity fading into the background as night settled in. He could see the outlines of the buildings, the distant lights flickering like stars against the darkening sky. It was a strange feeling—being in a new place, yet already feeling a sense of belonging.

With a deep breath, Stephen turned away from the window and headed for his room. The bed was just as Grey had said, neatly made, the sheets crisp and smelling faintly of lavender. He set his suitcase on the floor and sat on the edge of the bed, the weight of the day finally sinking in.

Tomorrow would be the start of something new. But for now, the quiet was enough.


"Anna, I've told you before, you must be more careful," Dana Whitechurch said, her voice tinged with frustration as she moved across her office. Her gaze softened slightly as she helped the young woman off the raised examination table. "If you aggravate that injury too much, you'll be looking at surgery back East, and I doubt that's something you can afford."

Anna rubbed her arm, wincing slightly. "You're much harsher than the other doctors at the hospital," she said, her voice a mix of irritation and resignation.

Dana sighed, running the back of her hand over her face. "I don't want to see you have issues that could have been avoided," she replied, her tone softening. "I care about your well-being now, so please listen to me and take this prescription down the street and get it filled. Once a day, take one pill, mind you."

The girl nodded lazily, her attention clearly wavering. "Did you hear that there's a new young doctor at the hospital? From all I've heard, he's not engaged." She threw a suggestive glance at Dana, clearly hoping for a reaction.

Dana rolled her eyes and moved to her desk. "Leave your fanciful thoughts at the door. Perhaps someone else will indulge them," she said, trying to keep her tone neutral.

Anna giggled as she hopped off the table, taking the prescription with her. "Bye, Doc." The door slammed behind her with a finality that echoed through the room.

Dana sighed, muttering to herself, "Doctor, doctor… it's one more syllable." She returned to her paperwork, trying to focus on the mundane tasks that occupied her day. As she cleaned up and disinfected the table, a knock sounded on her door.

"I'll call you in in a moment, let me get set up," Dana called toward the door, her irritation barely concealed.

The door opened anyway, admitting a short, wiry man followed by a tall man with distinctly ginger hair. Dana's gaze narrowed as she recognized Dr. Martin, one of the primary reasons she had chosen to set up her practice separate from the hospital. She set down her rag and wiped her hands on the stiff apron she wore over her clothes.

"Ah, Doctor Martin, I didn't know to expect you," Dana said, her voice carrying a hint of irritation. Her gaze lingered on the certificate on her wall that clearly labeled her as a doctor. It seemed that the certificate was invisible to some people.

"Miss Whitechurch, this is my trainee, Dr. Reyburn," Dr. Martin said, gesturing to the young man beside him. "He's just arrived from New York City and will be taking over the intensive surgery unit."

"Congratulations," Dana said with a curt nod, her gaze flicking briefly to Dr. Reyburn before settling back on Dr. Martin. She couldn't help but feel a pang of annoyance. The certificate on her wall felt like a taunt in this moment, a reminder of the respect she was often denied.

Dr. Martin continued, oblivious to her frustration. "Miss Whitechurch is not employed by the hospital and focuses primarily on labor and delivery, as well as some other minor matters."

Dana's gaze turned icy as she met Dr. Reyburn's eyes. "Welcome, Mr. Reyburn. Should you have any… 'other minor matters' for which you require assistance, feel free to contact me," she said, her voice dripping with the emphasis Dr. Martin had so clearly used.

Dr. Reyburn, unfazed by the tension, smiled warmly. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Dr. Whitechurch. This seems like a splendid practice—good ventilation, very clean."

Dana's expression softened slightly at the compliment. "Thank you. I was very particular about its condition when I chose it."

Dr. Martin, clearly uninterested in extending the conversation, said curtly, "We need to return to the hospital now. I just wanted to introduce Dr. Reyburn in case he ever needs an extra set of hands in the delivery ward." He emphasized the point with a pointed look, making it clear what he thought Dana's role should be.

The three exchanged brief pleasantries before the two men left. As the door closed behind them, Dana's irritation bubbled to the surface. "What utter—" She stopped mid-sentence as she caught sight of her next patient ascending the stairs. She forced herself to regain her composure, smoothing her expression into one of professional warmth. "Good morning, Mr. Danyon. Phantom pain again?"

Mr. Danyon, a middle-aged man with a weathered face and a kind demeanor, stepped into the room. He looked sheepish as he nodded. "I'm sorry, Doc. I know it must seem like I'm always coming in."

Dana smiled reassuringly as she guided him to the examination table. "Mr. Danyon, you're no trouble at all. Let's see what we can do for you today."

As she examined him, Dana noticed the familiar lines of pain etched deeply into his face. Her fingers moved with practiced ease, palpating the affected area with skill and precision. "How's the rest of your day been? Any changes in your routine that might be affecting the pain?"

Mr. Danyon sighed, leaning back and closing his eyes as he considered her question. "I've recently started working at the steel mill. It's hard work, and with… well this" he waved the stump of his right arm. "it's not the easiest job. I'm just trying to make ends meet. My son has been helping more than I'd like. He's taken on doing people's chores and yards, and skipping school sometimes to do so, but I don't want him to end up in a place like the mill. I want him to have a better future, with an education and opportunities."

Dana's eyes softened with sympathy, she herself a recipient of a parental love like this. "It's admirable that you're working so hard, and I understand why you're pushing for a better future for your son. But don't forget, you're only human. You'll wear out."

Mr. Danyon nodded, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "I do what I can. He's determined to keep everything together, like it's his job… I worry that the stress of everything is too much for him."

Dana hummed in agreement, finishing her examination and work on his arm. "Remember, consistency is key, and we'll work together to get this under control."

"Thank you, Doc. I'll try to take better care," Mr. Danyon said as he gathered his belongings. He paused at the door, turning back with a thoughtful look. "You're a special one, Doc; It's more than just the physical pain that you treat."

Dana's gaze softened. "It's my pleasure, Mr. Danyon. It's why I do this."