Sunday was the quietest day of the week in the East End. There were no factory sirens, no school bells, and no constant clanking of iron chains from the docks loading and unloading cargo.
When Ryan woke up, sunlight was already streaming through the attic window. Last night's dream seemed to have drained a lot of his energy, and it was rare for him to sleep past eight o'clock.
Sounds were already drifting up from downstairs. The landlady was busy in the kitchen, a pot of oatmeal bubbling and steaming, while Irene sat at the dining table doing her homework, her fountain pen scratching softly against the paper.
Sunday breakfast was slightly more generous than usual—brown bread, fried eggs, and a bit of butter. The landlady was clearly in a good mood, even splurging to slice up half a sausage, something that wouldn't easily find its way to the table on a regular day.
“Day off?”
Irene looked up.
Ryan nodded.
“Must be nice.”
Irene sighed.
“I still have to write a history essay this afternoon.”
“Keep up the hard work, then.”
“Is that supposed to be comforting?”
“Yes.”
Irene rolled her eyes in exasperation.
After breakfast, Irene headed back to her room clutching her textbooks, while the landlady got ready for church. Since Ryan rarely had any free time, he decided to head out as well.
The East End on Sunday was completely different from the weekdays. Many shops were closed, and there were easily half as many pedestrians on the streets. A few children were kicking a ball made of wrapped rags on the roadside, and not far away, two young boys started fighting over a foul, only to be slapped by a passing mother, quickly sending them back to sit obediently by the curb.
The smell of coal smoke still lingered in the air, though it wasn't as thick as usual.
Ryan strolled down the street toward the market district, one of the few places that remained bustling on a Sunday. Stalls selling fish, bread, and secondhand clothes crowded the streets. A few elderly women were haggling red-faced over two pennies, as if the national budget depended on it.
Nearby, a young paperboy kept shouting.
“Latest news from East Port!”
“Latest news from East Port!”
“Seven more deaths!”
Ryan paused for a moment, then bought a copy of the newspaper.
One penny.
The paper quality was terrible, and the ink was even a bit smudged.
The front page was still about East Port.
《Infectious Disease Continues to Spread in Port District》
《Several Warehouses Temporarily Closed》
《City Council Demands Stricter Health Inspections》
The content was similar to yesterday, but the numbers had clearly increased.
Ryan read as he walked. The newspaper blamed the outbreak on sanitation issues, claiming that sewage, rat infestations, and contaminated drinking water were causing the disease to spread. These reasons seemed perfectly reasonable—almost too reasonable.
Ryan folded the paper, keeping his thoughts to himself.
After all, he knew that whatever was happening in East Port was likely not that simple.
As he continued forward, noticeable changes began to appear along the streets.
A long line snaked outside a pharmacy, with many people buying fever reducers and cough syrup. A few women wore masks, their expressions visibly tense.
Not far away, a carriage was parked by the curb, covered in a white cloth. Two men in black were carrying a stretcher. Passersby instinctively steered clear, no one speaking, the atmosphere heavy and oppressive.
Death was not uncommon in this era, but lately it had clearly become more frequent.
Ryan glanced at them and kept walking.
Around noon, he stopped at a small diner for lunch.
The diner's owner was chatting with some customers, and the topic, as expected, was East Port.
“I have a cousin who works at the docks,” one said.
“I heard they've already sealed off two warehouses.”
“Is that true?”
“Who knows.”
“Either way, stay away from there for now.”
Another customer chimed in from a different table.
“I heard it's a disease brought in by foreign ships.”
“I heard it's a sewage issue.”
“You're all wrong.”
A drunken old sailor suddenly spoke up.
“It's something they fished out of the sea.”
The crowd burst into laughter, no one taking the drunkard's words seriously. Only Ryan gave him a second look.
But the old sailor had already gone back to staring down at his drink.
In the afternoon, Ryan wandered around the city for a long time, even visiting a few neighborhoods he didn't normally frequent.
He passed by bookstores, secondhand markets, riverbank paths, and a small park.
London was still London—bustling, crowded, and massive, yet showing signs of decay at every turn.
Luxurious carriages and slums were often separated by only a few streets. Some spent over a dozen pounds on a single dinner, while others, a family of five, crammed into a leaky basement.
The sun gradually dipped below the horizon, and the gas lamps along the streets began to flicker to life.
Only then did Ryan remember it was Sunday. The church services probably hadn't ended yet, so he turned and walked toward Grey Crow Church.
The area outside the church was much busier than usual. Numerous carriages were parked at the entrance, with many congregants filing in and out. The air was thick with the scent of melting wax and incense.
When Ryan stepped inside, the hall was almost entirely full. The pews were packed with people—workers, shop clerks, housewives, students, the elderly, and even young mothers holding their babies. Everyone listened quietly to the priest's sermon.
However, Ryan quickly noticed that there were significantly more people today than before. Moreover, many of them looked unwell. Some coughed incessantly, others had dark circles under their eyes, and a few were visibly ill, yet they still insisted on attending the service.
The priest stood at the pulpit, his voice deep and solemn.
“The calamity will pass.”
“The sickness will eventually depart.”
“God will protect His people.”
Below, many closed their eyes in prayer. Some silently made the holy sign, while others murmured scriptures under their breath.
Ryan sat quietly at the back of the crowd, suddenly realizing something.
The increase in churchgoers wasn't out of devotion, but out of fear.
The sickness in East Port was spreading, and people were beginning to feel afraid. When people are afraid, they always look for something to lean on.
Some believed in the government.
Some believed in doctors.
Some believed in God.
By the time the service ended, the sky had turned pitch black. The congregants filed out one after another. The priest and a few nuns began distributing hot soup and bread to some of the sick, forming a queue outside the church that stretched all the way to the street.
Ryan stood in the crowd and watched for a moment, noticing that the number of people coming for relief had also increased recently.
The deep tolling of a bell echoed from a distant tower. Night fell as the gas lamps lit up one by one, and London's fog seemed to grow even thicker than the days before.
For some reason, Ryan suddenly thought of East Port. He thought of the sealed warehouses, the rising death toll in the papers, and the unusual movements of the Suppression Bureau.
A breeze swept through the streets, carrying a hint of chill.
He pulled his coat tighter around himself and turned to walk back toward St. Blaise Street.
A new week was about to begin, and this city was undergoing a change that most people had yet to notice.
Monday morning.
London's sky remained a dreary grey. A light rain had fallen the night before, leaving damp patches on the cobblestones. Coal smoke mixed with the fog, pressing down heavily over the city.
Ryan woke up earlier than usual.
Rate on N.U.
