Tommy had finnaly reached London. He was anxious to meet the other kids at the orphanage. He always daydreamed when he was alone, or at least felt as if he were. Though he knew Annabelle would always be there for him. Annabelle was a sweet and frail young woman, who seemed to be in her mid-twenties. She had a pale face and was bony and always wore a long, deep green or velvet, blue dress. She covered her skeleton hands by wearing white gloves with lace around the wrist where the silk had stopped. She often looked at this small boy, with a round face and decently proportioned body compared to hers. He had noticed and wondered why, but never asked. He wondered if it was because she wished to be plump like him, or remembered her days of being a young child like him. He wondered if she had, in some way, connected them in her mind in ways like them having such similar mouse-brown hair, or the fact that his eyes were green like her dress that she often wore.
He daydreampt about his parents often, though he knew nothing about them. He would create little stories in his mind about all the possibilities about how they met, who they were, what they looked like. When he was on the train, he looked into the vast, dull, foggy sky. He thought about how thousands of people were walking, jogging, biking, working, and driving in this depressing atmosphere. He thought about how the kids at the orphanage may be playing in this dreadful and damp way. How this may be overwhelming to the elders of the land. But he knew he had to hold his head up high and look presentable. He hoped for friends, he hoped for better days and he hoped for smiles to welcome him.