Sunlight filtered through the grimy windowpanes of the brothel, scattering across the dust that danced lazily in the air. Charles sat cross-legged on the floor, crayons in his small hands, his latest drawing slowly taking shape on a sheet of worn-out paper.
"I drew Mama again! Look!" he chirped with excitement.
His little fingers were clumsy, but each line carried the image of a woman with long flowing hair and a gentle smile.
From the doorway, Marianne watched him with a tired smile. Her blond hair was loosely tied, her thin dress threadbare, but there was still warmth in her presence. She walked over slowly, crouched beside him, and brushed his hair with trembling fingers.
"Is this Mama?" she asked, her voice hoarse from a long night.
Charles nodded eagerly, his eyes glowing. "You're the prettiest mama in the whole wide world!"
Marianne chuckled softly. Her laughter… it carried a pain too deep for words, yet she wore a mask of joy—for him.
"If you keep drawing like this, you might become an artist someday," she said, kissing his forehead. "Not someone like me."
Charles didn't understand what she meant. To him, the world was simple: it was made of smiles and crayons and his mother's warmth. He didn't care what she did for work, nor did he understand the quiet sobs that sometimes filled the night, or the strange men who came and went.
All he knew was this—
Marianne was the only light in his life.
Outside the window, Whitechapel pulsed with despair. Muddy streets, creaking carts, and the cries of starving children echoed through the alleyways. Rats the size of cats darted through open sewers. Filth clung to everything.
But inside that brothel room, Charles' world was nothing more than crayons, paper… and his mother.
---
Night crept in like thick black fog, settling between the cracks of the old brick walls. The hallway candles flickered, shadows twisting as a cold wind slipped through shattered windows.
Usually, the brothel would be alive by now—filled with laughter, creaking beds, and the hollow moans of women pretending to feel joy.
But tonight…
Tonight was far too quiet.
Marianne peeked out the window of their cramped room. The street below was deserted. No drunken shouts. No echoing footsteps.
Her heart sank.
Charles was still awake, sitting in the corner with his ragged cloth doll clutched tight in his arms. He looked up. "Mama… why is it so quiet tonight?"
Marianne turned to him and forced a smile, though her face had gone pale.
"Maybe London decided to sleep early tonight," she whispered.
But deep inside, something foul and cold began to stir—like rot rising from the sewer.
---
Around midnight, a chill breeze slipped through the cracks under the door. One by one, the lanterns in the hallway went out—as if snuffed out by an unseen hand.
Then—
CRASH!!
The door downstairs was kicked open with brutal force. Heavy footsteps stormed in, fast… urgent…
Shiiing—SLASH!!
The sharp sound of a blade slicing flesh.
A scream.
A woman's scream, raw and full of pain, echoed from below.
Charles bolted upright, face pale. "Mama… what was that?"
Marianne grabbed him, her arms trembling. Before she could speak—
Another scream. Closer this time. Real.
Too real to be a dream.
The lights went out. Darkness devoured the room.
Marianne clutched Charles' hand tight, her whole body shaking.
"Listen, Charles… hide under the bed. Don't come out. No matter what happens."
"But Mama—"
"Don't come out!" she hissed, on the verge of tears, pressing a kiss to his forehead—one last time.
Charles crawled under the bed. He covered his mouth, holding his breath.
THUD.
Heavy footsteps climbed the stairs.
Slow.
Deliberate.
Deadly.
Then—
AARGHH!!
A shriek from further down the hallway.
A chair crashed. A glass shattered.
SCRREEKKK!
Metal scraped across the wooden floor.
Charles curled into a ball, eyes wide in the darkness. His spine turned to ice. Just beyond the bedframe, he heard ragged breathing… then the final scream of a woman—
—followed by the whistle of something slicing through air.
Then…
Silence.
Only the sound of Charles' frantic heartbeat remained.
Until—
BAM!
A blunt force struck the back of his head.
The world went black.
---
Dawn didn't arrive with warmth, only the stench of blood and death.
Charles woke to a dull ache in his skull. Slowly, he sat up—
and realized he was lying in the brothel's hallway.
His eyes widened.
Blood.
Corpses.
The women who once laughed with him now lay motionless—eyes open, bodies pierced.
Charles ran.
"Mama's room… Mama… MAMA!!"
He stopped before the door.
It was ajar.
He pushed it open with trembling hands.
There—on the bed—was Marianne.
Her body had been stabbed four times. Blood soaked the sheets. Her eyes stared blankly at the ceiling.
Charles froze. His breath caught in his throat.
"M-Mama…?"
No reply.
He collapsed to his knees. His mouth opened, but no words came.
Tears fell, one after another, unstoppable.
"Mama… don't leave me… Mama…"
In the distance, the bells of the police rang out. Scotland Yard's sirens approached—too late, as always.
But there was nothing left to save.
Charles could only sit in silence, trembling, his sobs swallowed by the cold morning air.
An eight-year-old boy.
Alone in the world.
And without anyone noticing—
That was the night the smile of a child vanished forever.