Part Eighteen Raymond's Sighted at Coral Street
Humphrey gestured for Jonathan to follow him past the display floor, through a beaded curtain into the backroom. The air here was quieter still, filled with the faint rustle of fabric rolls stacked neatly against the walls. A single oil lamp burned on the worktable, its glow soft against the tailor's lined face.
"Stand straight," Humphrey said gently, pulling a length of chalked string from his pocket.
His hands, though aged, still moved with precision as he began measuring Jonathan's shoulders.
For a time, neither spoke. Only the sound of the string brushing cloth, the faint scratch of chalk against fabric. Then Humphrey broke the silence.
"You wear grief like a coat too heavy for you, lad," he murmured. "I know it well. In the third War, I lost my wife and boy. To the fire and the madness. Nearly broke me clean in two."
Jonathan's jaw tightened. He had heard stories, but never this plainly.
"What pulled you through?" he asked, almost against his will.
Humphrey smiled faintly, though it did not reach his eyes. "Time, friends, and work. And the kindness of your family. Raymond never spoke of it, but his father made certain I had orders enough to keep my shop alive when I might have let it die. It is why I tell you this: do not walk alone too long. Attend the wedding, lad. Even if only to see familiar faces. It might do you some good."
Jonathan lowered his gaze, unwilling to promise.
Humphrey shifted, measuring his chest. His voice took on a softer, thoughtful edge. "Strange thing, though. Just before the… tragedy, I thought I saw him. Your father."
Jonathan's head lifted sharply. "You saw him?"
"Aye. Down in Coral Street. Not a place I'd expect a Hanns to be." Humphrey's brow furrowed as he marked the measure with chalk. "At first I dismissed it. A trick of the fog. But no—the posture, the eyes. I'd swear it was him. Sitting at a café, of all places. With a man in a purple hat."
Jonathan's breath caught. Coral Street — the slums, the forgotten quarter. His father, a man of steel and council halls, had no reason to be there.
"You're certain?"
Humphrey hesitated, string taut in his hands. "Certain enough that the memory clings. But I could have been mistaken. The fog plays games in that quarter." He shook his head, as if to wave it off, though the unease in his eyes betrayed him.
Jonathan said nothing. But the thought rooted itself in his mind: Raymond Hanns, meeting in secret, in a place no councilman should tread.
And with a stranger in a purple hat.