Small Heath, Birmingham, 1915.
The air stinks of coal dust and wet brick, and the streets buzz with the clatter of carts and the shouts of men too old or too broken to be sent off to France.
Finn Shelby is 10, a skinny kid with a mop of dark hair and a habit of kicking stones down Watery Lane until they skitter into the cut.
His brothers; Tommy, Arthur and John are off at war, and the house feels hollow without their noise.
It's just him, Ada, and Polly now, holding the Shelby name together while the world tears itself apart.
One night in late autumn, Finn wakes up gasping. His shirt clings to his back, the blanket damp. He grips the edges tightly, chest rising like he's just sprinted down the lane. He doesn't scream. Shelbys don't scream. but his hands clutch the thin blanket, knuckles white.
In his head, there's mud, thick and black sucking at his boots. Men yell, their voices cut off by a crack that splits the air. Blood sprays, warm and sticky, and a young pale face with eyes wide, stares at him before it's gone.
He blinks, and it's just the ceiling of his room, cracked plaster and a spiderweb in the corner. He's never seen a trench, never held a rifle, but the dream feels real, like it's his.
It happens again the next night, and the next. Different pieces each time: a whistle shrieking, a hand clawing at dirt, the dull thud of something heavy hitting the ground.
Finn doesn't tell anyone. Ada's busy with her own worries, and Polly's got enough on her plate, running the betting shop and keeping the coppers off their backs.
He's not a baby, he won't go crying about bad dreams. But they stick to him.
He starts waking up tired, eyes shadowed and quieter than usual.
Polly notices first. She's at the kitchen table one morning, counting coins into stacks, when Finn shuffles in, barefoot and pale.
He doesn't say much, he just grabs a heel of bread and sits by the stove, staring at the flames. "You look like death," she says, not looking up from her tally. Her voice is sharp, but there's a thread of something softer in it. Finn shrugs, chewing slow. "I didn't sleep."
She grunts, slides a shilling across the table. "Get some tea from the shop, then. Wake yourself up."
He takes it, but his fingers linger on the coin, like he's testing its weight.
After that, he starts hanging around her more. Not on purpose, not really; he just drifts to where she is.
After that, he starts sticking close to her. Not saying why. Just ending up where she is. The kitchen's warm. Polly's always in motion; scribbling in ledgers, muttering about missing money and snapping at delivery boys.
Finn doesn't ask to help; he's not that bold. He just watches, perched on a stool or leaning against the wall, flipping a pebble between his fingers.
She doesn't shoo him off, and that's enough.
The dreams keep coming, though. They're not loud or dramatic; just heavy.
A soldier's memories, raw and unfiltered: the weight of a pack, the sting of rain on a gashed hand, the sight of a mate's leg twisted wrong in the wire.
Finn doesn't know what they mean. He's never seen war, not like his brothers, but he feels it in his bones, a dull ache that wasn't there before.
It changes him, bit by bit. He stops running wild with the other kids as much, starts sitting still longer, listening to the world instead of charging through it.
His eyes get sharper, like he's looking for something he can't name.
One afternoon, Polly's hunched over a pile of receipts, cigarette dangling from her lips.
Finn's there, tossing that same pebble up and catching it, the rhythm steady. She doesn't say anything, and neither does he.
The fire crackles, the street outside buzzes, and the dreams sit heavy in his chest—blood and death and a soldier's ghost he doesn't understand. He's still Finn, still the kid who'd rather nick an apple than ask for one, but something's waking up inside him, slow and quiet, like a tide creeping in.