The Morgan Library wasn't much to look at—a cramped building wedged between a tobacco shop and a shop that claimed to repair umbrellas. Inside, shelves climbed toward a ceiling stained by decades of use, packed with books that looked like they have stories to tell on their own .
It's not the British Library, but it's got books. Actual books. This might be the first good thing that's happened since truck-kun introduced me to reincarnation.
Thomas Morgan moved through the narrow aisles with the easy familiarity of a man who'd found his place in the world.
"Not much," he said, catching Aaric's expression. "But it's mine, and the books don't judge."
He thinks I'm overwhelmed by the grandeur. If only he knew I'm actually calculating the monetary value of his collection and wondering whether any of these volumes will be worth a fortune in fifty years.
Aaric ran his fingers along the spine of a volume on strategy, marveling at the simple luxury of having access to knowledge again. "You read much?" Thomas asked, settling behind a desk.
Careful, Aaric. Don't sound too educated. You're supposed to be a street orphan, not someone who spent four years in business school.
"Some." Aaric pulled the strategy book from the shelf, noting the author's name with interest. He'd read this exact text in business school, though that edition had been published sixty years in the future. " history, mostly."
Good. history is something a war orphan might reasonably be interested in. Stay in character.
Thomas raised an eyebrow. "Unusual interest for a boy your age."
Shit. Too sophisticated again. Think like a teenager. What would a thirteen-year-old say?
"Unusual times," Aaric replied, which seemed both true and sufficiently vague.
Brilliant deflection. Very mysterious. Very... wait, did that make me sound even more suspicious?
Over the next few days, a routine developed. Aaric would arrive at dawn, help Thomas with basic library chores—shelving books, sweeping floors, dealing with the occasional patron who wandered in looking for something to read. In exchange, he received meals that were simple but regular, a corner where he could sleep without worrying about having his throat cut, and unlimited access to Thomas's collection.
This is amazing. Free food, free shelter, free education, and all I have to do is pretend to be a grateful orphan. Which I am. Sort of. The grateful part is real, anyway.
The arrangement should have been perfect. Warm, safe, educational—everything a homeless thirteen-year-old could want.
The problem was that Aaric couldn't quite convince himself to stay off the streets.
I should be content with this. I should stay here, read books, learn what I can, and avoid attracting attention until I'm old enough to do something useful with my knowledge. That would be the smart play.
So why do I keep going back out there?
Every afternoon, he found excuses to venture out. "Getting supplies," he'd tell Thomas, or "checking on something." What he was actually doing was mapping the neighborhood's power structure, identifying potential opportunities, and slowly building a reputation among the local children as someone worth noting.
What I'm actually doing is networking. In 1919. With street children.
It wasn't conscious at first. Old habits from his previous life—network building, market analysis, competitive intelligence gathering. But the streets of post-war London weren't a boardroom, and the currency here wasn't stock options or quarterly projections.
Though the basic principles are the same. Find out who has power, who wants power, who's vulnerable to losing power. Build relationships with people who might be useful later. Gather information that might become leverage.
The main difference is that here, if you miscalculate, people stab you instead of just firing you.
"You're different from the others," observed a boy called Mickey, who'd been watching Aaric's careful reconnaissance with interest. Mickey was perhaps fifteen, with the lean build of someone who'd learned to run fast and fight dirty. "You think before you move."
Mickey's noticed I'm not normal. That's... concerning. How obvious am I being?
"Thinking's free," Aaric replied, studying the pawn shop across the street where a young boy with dark hair was arguing with the proprietor over the value of a pocket watch.
Also, thinking's apparently suspicious when you're supposed to be a desperate street child. Note to self: act more impulsive.
"Most kids our age, they just react," Mickey continued. "See food, grab food. See threat, run or fight. You... you're always watching. Always thinking. It's weird."
Weird. Fantastic. I'm weird. How long before weird becomes suspicious becomes dangerous?
"Weird how?"
"Weird like you're playing a different game than the rest of us."
Because I am playing a different game.
"Maybe I am," Aaric said, because sometimes honesty was easier than clever lies.
That afternoon, Aaric watched the dark-haired boy leave the pawn shop empty-handed and followed him. Poor kid's furious about something. Probably got cheated. In my experience, people who get cheated either give up or get clever. Let's see which type he is.
The boy kicked at a stone, muttering something under his breath . When he stopped to count the windows on a building , just counting—Aaric grew curious.
That's... unusual. Most kids don't find comfort in counting when they're angry.
"Bad day at the pawn shop?" Aaric asked, approaching casually.
The boy startled, then shrugged. "Izzy Roth," he said, extending a quick handshake. His accent was thick with something foreign. "And yes. Old bastard tried to cheat me."
Russian, maybe? Jewish definitely, judging by the name. Refugee from somewhere maybe
"How much?"
"Offered eight shillings for a watch worth three pounds easy." Izzy's frustration was raw, personal. "I know what things cost. I always know. But knowing doesn't help when you're just some Russian kid with no connections."
He knows what things cost. Not thinks, knows. That's confidence born from skill, not guesswork. This boy has genuine talent.
Aaric studied him. Most people argued about money based on want or desperation. Izzy spoke about it like someone who actually understood value—not just price, but worth.
"You could find better buyers," Aaric suggested.
"People who pay fair prices don't deal with people like me."
"Not yet."
Not yet. Good line. Mysterious, implies future possibilities, doesn't commit to anything specific. I'm getting better at this cryptic mastermind thing.
The next day brought a delivery to the library—a girl with auburn hair carrying a box of books from some estate. She moved quietly, efficiently, but Aaric noticed how her eyes lingered on certain titles, the way she handled the volumes with more care than necessary.
Servant who loves books but isn't allowed to read them. That's tragedy and opportunity wrapped up in one person.
"Thank you, Lilith," Thomas said. "Same time next week?"
"Yes, sir. His Lordship has more he'd like to donate." Her voice was carefully proper, but when she glanced at Aaric, there was sharp intelligence behind the servant's mask.
She's studying me. Why is she studying me? Do I look suspicious? Am I supposed to tip servants? I don't know the protocol for tipping servants in twentieth century.
When she left, Thomas caught Aaric watching. "Sharp girl. Sees more than she lets on."
"Most people do," Aaric replied.
That night, lying on his cot, Aaric stared at the ceiling and tried to figure out what the hell he was doing. Half his time was spent genuinely grateful—Thomas had saved his life, given him shelter, treated him with more kindness than he'd received in sixty years. The other half was spent calculating diffrent angles, mapping relationships, planning moves he couldn't even articulate yet.
I'm turning into exactly the kind of person I used to hate. The kind who sees every relationship as transactional, every kindness as opportunity, every conversation as potential leverage.
But what's the alternative? Stay grateful and helpless forever? Hope that kindness alone will keep me alive in a world where people get murdered for having the wrong accent?
The worst part was that both felt real. The gratitude and the calculation, the genuine affection for Thomas and the constant evaluation of how that affection could be useful.
Maybe that's just how survival works when you can't afford to be sentimental. Maybe everyone does this—weighs friendship against advantage, loyalty against opportunity.
Or maybe I'm becoming the kind of person who justifies everything in terms of survival because it's easier than admitting I enjoy the planning, the manipulation, the feeling of being cleverer than everyone around me.
Probably that last one.
Outside his window, London settled into its nightly rhythm of shadows and secrets. Somewhere out there, Izzy was probably by candlelight, calculating values of things that no one else appreciated. Somewhere else, Lilith was laying out clothes for masters who'd never bothered to learn her surname.
All of us trapped in circumstances smaller than our capabilities. All of us looking for something better, something bigger, something that might actually matter.
Maybe that's enough to build on. Maybe shared ambition is stronger than individual greed.
Or maybe I'm just telling myself that because I'm lonely and desperate and Thomas Morgan is the first person who's been kind to me in either lifetime.
Either way, tomorrow he'd continue his careful balance , between being the boy Thomas thought he was and the man he was trying to become.
One day at a time. Stay alive, stay useful, and try not to let anyone figure out that I'm making this up as I go along.
How hard could it be?