Early February. The echoes of music carry farther than truth.
It began at the corner cafés.
A baritone soldier sang it over his ale, rough but tender:
"I've seen fire and I've seen rain…"
By the end of the week, even Parliament's marble halls hummed the tune.
The song had crossed classes, gender, and politics — no one could escape it. Serena's voice had become the pulse of the city.
People called it "the hymn of the fallen and forgiven."
No one realized how perfectly that phrase described her.
Serena
The first time she heard it performed by someone else, Serena froze.
She had gone out disguised beneath a dark veil, walking with Emily through the fog to the bookshop near Trafalgar Street. Inside, a young woman sat by the counter, singing softly as she stacked volumes:
"But I always thought that I'd see you again…"
