Morning mist enveloped London in a wet veil, obscuring the edges of the world. Carriages groaned across puddles, throwing mud up on worn cobblestones. The air stank with a faint smell of smoke, wet earth, and the heavenly aroma of freshly baked bread carried through narrow alleys and shuttered doors.

Through the din of the merchants and the distant tinkle of the bells, stood Elizabeth, clutching in her hand a wicker-covered basket full of golden loaves suspended. The fumes from them ascended delicately and evocatively, but the street about her took little heed. Her fingers were chapped by the cold, the hem of her shawl blowing with every gust of wind.

Oh sir, would you have some bread? Fresh bread!" she hailed, her voice low but insistent.

A man slowed his pace — a tall, gloved one, his black coat brushing the edges of the mist. He looked at her, his eyes smooth but impenetrable, a face of passive indifference under the brim of his hat.

"No thanks," he barked curtly, and continued down the street.

"Oh… thank you," Elizabeth panted, trying to hold onto her manners despite the smile falling away from her face.

She stood there for a heartbeat, watching the man disappear into the fog. The chill in the air crept deeper into her body, into her skin and marrow. She pulled her shawl closer around her shoulders, restocked her basket, and let out a gentle sigh that was consumed by the mist.

The street went by out there — wheels creaking, footsteps ringing out, voices blending with the morning rumble. Raindrops began to spatter against the cobblestones, cooling the air further still.

And then—

A scream cut through the fog.

Elizabeth's eyes flashed toward the shriek.

A block away, a small boy had ventured onto the road, dashing after something — perhaps a toy, one that had rolled along the wet sidewalk, catching the faint glint of gray light.

But another something was coming — a low, grinding thrum that was growing louder.

Her eyes expanded.

Out of the fog rode the rumble of horses' hooves thundering, the rush of a black carriage racing down the street. The driver screamed crazily, pulling on the reins with all his might, but the horses were too close — too fast — the weight of the carriage dragging them along in madblindness.

The boy stood frozen, mouth agape with terror.

Elizabeth carelessly dropped her basket. Bread cascaded out, hitting the cobblestones, crusts shattering in the ground. The scent of flour and dust sliced cold through the wet air.

She gulped for air, and then— ran.

"Wait—" someone bellowed after her, but the voice was distant, eclipsed by the pounding of hooves.

Her skirt flared about her knees as she ran, boots sliding on slick stone. The din of the carriage struck her head — metal screeching, horses crying. Every pounding heartbeat a stroke of terror.

The world was narrowed to that moment. The boy. The street. The runaway carriage.

She caught him — clutched at his arm — and pushed.

The child staggered sideways, thudding onto the curb with a jarring cry.

And then—

The light faded, the city din swallowed in the impact of hooves—

CRASH.

The carriage smashed.

White enveloped all. The fog, the din, the air — all vanished, replaced by quiet where the world had been.