Wednesday arrived quickly.
Before the sun had fully risen, Ryan was already out of bed.
The attic was a bit cold, with drafts constantly whistling through the cracks in the window. When he sat up from his bed, his head still felt heavy.
Last night, in order to control the Lantern's Glory, he had stayed on the edge of the Wood for a long time. It wasn't until he confirmed that the glow within him had stabilized again that he forced himself to wake from the dreamscape.
The kerosene lamp on the desk had long since gone out, leaving the room in dim darkness.
But Ryan could still clearly see everything around him.
The wooden desk, the water basin, the pile of old books in the corner, and the dark coat hanging by the door.
The influence of the Lantern aspect was deepening bit by bit.
The change was not obvious, but it was happening every single second.
Ryan withdrew his gaze and began to wash up.
Then, he changed into his formal clerk uniform.
A dark gray overcoat, a black vest, brass buttons polished to a shine, and even the archive's emblem pinned to his chest.
This outfit could not be considered luxurious, but it was respectable enough in the East End. At the very least, no one would mistake him for a dock laborer anymore.
When he went downstairs, the landlady was sweeping the floor.
Seeing Ryan come down, she was visibly startled.
“Going somewhere today?”
Ryan nodded.
“To school.”
“School?”
The landlady blinked, and then her gaze fell upon the emblem on his chest. Her expression instantly became rather complicated.
A few months ago, Ryan was just a poor boy who couldn't pay rent and was on the verge of dying from illness. Now, he was wearing a formal uniform and had become an archive clerk.
The transformation was so fast it felt somewhat surreal.
“Good luck,” the landlady said at last.
Ryan smiled, pushed open the door, and left.
The sky outside was incredibly gloomy. It seemed to have just rained last night; the streets were covered in puddles, and carriage wheels splashed up large sheets of mud as they passed.
Winter in London was drawing closer, and the air was thick with dampness and the smell of coal smoke.
Ryan pulled up his collar and walked along the street toward the carriage stop.
Along the way, he saw many familiar faces.
Newspaper boys, dockworkers carrying cargo, old men pushing coal carts, and crowds lining up for charity bread.
Life seemed to go on without any change.
But only Ryan knew that something was slowly spreading.
The coughing, blood-spitting patients at the church entrance, the increasing number of death registries at the archive, and the gray, lingering aura on the records of the deceased.
All of this was impossible to ignore.
A dozen minutes later, the public carriage arrived.
Ryan got on and found a seat by the window.
There were already quite a few people inside, mostly workers heading to work, along with a few young people who looked like students.
They wore faded uniforms, cradled textbooks, and had numb expressions.
Ryan only had to glance at them to know they were likely heading to St. Blaise as well.
The carriage slowly started.
The wheels rumbled continuously over the wet cobblestone road.
Ryan leaned against the window, looking at the street scenery outside, as the memories of the body's original owner began to surface bit by bit.
Life back then was actually very simple.
Going to school, leaving school, working part-time, going home—every day was spent worrying about the next meal.
Winter was the hardest to endure.
The classrooms had no heating, and hands were often so frozen they couldn't grip a pen. Many students couldn't even afford textbooks and had to share one book among several people.
Sometimes, right after the teacher finished lecturing, the back rows would already be fast asleep because they had been helping out in the factories since the early hours of the morning.
Ryan remembered it very clearly.
The original owner's greatest dream had once been nothing more than finding a stable job after graduation, not having to starve, not having to sleep under bridge arches, and not being kicked out by the landlord.
That was all.
But even such a simple wish was difficult to achieve for most people in the East End.
Thinking of this, Ryan let out a soft sigh.
The scenery outside the window began to grow familiar.
The roads became more dilapidated, and the buildings grew lower.
This was the edge of the East End.
Further ahead was the area where St. Blaise Boys' Public School was located.
Forty minutes later, the carriage slowly ground to a halt.
Ryan stepped down, his soles immediately sinking into a puddle, cold muddy water splashing from the edges of his shoes.
He looked up.
In the distance, the familiar school gate stood quietly.
The iron railings were rusted, with large patches of paint peeling off.
Beside the gate hung the school's sign, its edges blackened, looking quite old.
On the nearby bulletin board, several new conscription posters were pasted, their paper rustling loudly in the wind.
Ryan stood there watching for a moment, suddenly feeling a sense of displacement, as if a lifetime had passed.
A few months ago, he was still a poor student who couldn't even pay rent.
Now, he was wearing a formal uniform, carrying the archive's briefcase, and returning here as a recruiter.
Fate was indeed strange sometimes.
Just then, the gatekeeper poked his head out of the guardhouse.
“Sir?”
Ryan snapped out of his thoughts and handed over his credentials.
The gatekeeper looked down, and his expression instantly turned polite.
“From the archive?”
“Yes.”
“The principal is already waiting for you.”
The iron gate was slowly opened.
Ryan stepped into the school grounds.
Familiar sights rushed to meet him.
The playground was still muddy. A few students were chasing and playing, someone was squatting in a corner smoking, someone was sitting on the steps staring blankly, and two older students were shoving each other while a crowd egged them on.
A teacher stood in the distance, only shouting a couple of times for form's sake before continuing to smoke with his head down.
Ryan couldn't help but smile.
Not a single thing had changed.
Really, not a single thing.
Time had stagnated here.
The air was still mixed with dampness, chalk dust, and the smell of cheap tobacco.
This was St. Blaise.
A school for the poor children of the East End, and the place where countless youths saw their childhoods end.
The principal's office was still the same.
Narrow, cold, drafty windows, a coal stove in the corner burning half-heartedly, and the air smelling of tea leaves and old paper.
The bald principal poured Ryan a cup of hot tea and then let out a bitter laugh.
“It's strange to say.”
“Fewer and fewer graduates have been coming back these past few years.”
Ryan took the teacup and remained silent.
The principal continued, “Those who make something of themselves are too busy to be seen, and those who live ordinary lives... probably don't really want to come back and look around.”
He paused.
“Our school, well, you know how it is.”
As he spoke, he looked out the window.
On the playground, a few students were kicking a ball in the mud, their shoes and trousers completely covered in filth.
“But those boys should be willing to listen to you speak.”
“At least you don't look like you're here to just read from a script.”
Ryan smiled.
“Then I'll do my best not to put them to sleep.”
The principal laughed along, looking up at the clock on the wall.
“It's about time.”
“The assembly hall is already set up.”
The two got up and left the office.
Students constantly passed by in the hallway.
Some sized Ryan up curiously, while others didn't care at all, continuing to fool around with their companions.
A section of the staircase handrail was still missing, large patches of plaster had peeled off the walls, and one could even see graffiti left secretly by students in the corners.
Everything was exactly as it was in his memories.
The assembly hall was located behind the teaching building, a separate old building.
Rate on N.U.
