Chapter 5 - Whispers in the Steel Yard
Three years passed in the shadows, measured not by seasons, but by the vigilance of survival.
The salt mill had been traded for an abandoned shipwright’s loft tucked inside the rusted industrial labyrinth of the dry docks. Here, amid the deafening clatter of overhead cranes and the scent of acetylene torches, Falcon had fashioned a quiet island of safety. Rosie had grown into a spirited toddler with thick, chestnut curls and wide, intelligent hazel eyes that watched the world with uncanny intensity.
To the men working the scrap heaps, Falcon was simply "Stone"—a taciturn welder who worked double shifts, kept his head down, and never spoke to the local foremen. He lived with his little girl in an insulated steel shipping container mounted inside the loft rafters, reachable only by a retractable iron ladder.
Every evening, Falcon would climb into the small haven, smelling of iron shavings and motor grease. Rosie would run to him on tiny feet, wrapping her arms around his knees. He would lift her with hands that had broken men’s bones, handling her as delicately as antique glass, placing a small carved wooden bird or a smooth river pebble into her palms.
"Did you see the gulls today, little bird?" he would murmur, washing the grime from his face in a porcelain basin.
"They flew past the high cranes," Rosie would whisper solemnly, sitting on a cot lined with patchwork blankets sewn by Beatrice, who lived in a convent six miles inland and visited only on holy days. "They're loud, Papa. Like the thunder."
Falcon brushed her hair back, noting the subtle shape of her cheekbones—a mirror image of Elena's. The resemblance was getting dangerous.
One afternoon, Falcon was down in the yard cutting the hull of a decommissioned freighter with a cutting torch. A young deckhand named Terry approached him, looking nervously over his shoulder.
"Stone," Terry called, shouting over the hiss of the blue flame. "There's a pair of blokes up in the front office. Suits. Looking through the employment logs from three years back."
Falcon extinguished the torch with a steady wrist. "What suits?"
"City suits. Expensive wool, black umbrellas. The kind of guys who look like they own politicians. They’re asking about a tall guy with ink on his chest and an old shoulder wound."
Falcon didn't say a word. He pulled off his heavy leather welding gloves and reached into his tool chest, pocketing a short-barreled revolver and an envelope containing three false passports and ten thousand dollars in cash.
"Where is the boss?" Falcon asked quietly.
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"He's stalling them in the main office, but they're bringing a folder of photographs," Terry said, his voice dropping. "Stone... one of the photos on top was a girl. A baby."
Falcon’s eyes turned to cold slate. He vaulted up the metal stairs toward the shipping container two at a time. The wolf had picked up the scent. The quiet life was over.
