With a sharp, metallic screech, the elevated train finally ground to a stop beside the rusted platform of Chatham Square Station.
The enamel sign, "Chatham Square," gleamed faintly under the weak afternoon light, its blue lettering dulled by decades of weather and soot.
Shane inhaled deeply. The air carried a mix of coal smoke, salt from the nearby East River, and the faint tang of rotting refuse from the alleyways—a pungent but familiar scent from memories of Dublin.
This was the heart of the Lower East Side, a district bordering the sprawling, chaotic New York docks. Shane led Mary off the train. From the elevated platform, the main thoroughfare below teemed with life: street vendors shouting, children darting between carts, and horse-drawn wagons weaving around early automobiles.
From a back alley near the river, the scrawled address Jason had given him pointed toward a narrow, shadowed street. In the distance, a freighter let out a prolonged whistle, its sound cutting across the rooftops and evoking a strange sense of home.
"Time to go," Shane murmured. Mary squeezed his hand in silent trust, her small fingers cold against his.
At the foot of the platform, two staircases led downward. The right staircase opened onto the bustling main street, bright and noisy; the left was shadowed, flanked by tall warehouse walls. Shane chose the left, guiding Mary toward a quieter, grimmer path.
Sunlight fractured through the narrow gap between buildings, casting shifting patterns on the worn steps. As they descended, the sounds of the city dimmed, replaced by the alley's hum of domestic life: wet laundry flapping in the wind, a baby crying in the distance, and low arguments drifting from windows above.
Finally, Shane stopped in front of a five-story red-brick building. Its walls were darkened with soot; fire escapes crisscrossed the facade like iron vines.
Suddenly, a window on the third floor opened. A disheveled woman in a faded bathrobe tipped a basin of murky wastewater into the street. Shane and Mary instinctively stepped back, exchanging a glance. Mary's small palm was sweaty; Shane squeezed it reassuringly.
They entered the building. The narrow hallway smelled of stale food, damp wood, and coal smoke, thickened with the various scents of immigrant life. Notices and faded flyers in English, Yiddish, Italian, and Polish plastered the walls.
A stooped Jewish man with a skullcap tinkered with a mailbox, barely glancing at them. On an old chair nearby sat a short, stout man in a starched shirt and dark vest, glasses perched on his nose, a thick ledger resting on his lap.
"Irish?" he asked, squinting at them. "Looking to rent?"
"Yes, sir," Shane replied politely. "We'd like to rent a room."
"Three months' rent in advance," the man said flatly, "No pets. No noise after ten PM. Acceptable?"
Shane didn't hesitate. He produced a small roll of banknotes and handed it over. The man counted them carefully, then nodded. "Third floor, last room on the left. Key's here."
He handed over a brass key. "I'm Morris. Follow the rules, or you'll move out."
Shane thanked him and led Mary up the narrow, creaking wooden staircase. The handrail was greasy, the steps threatening to give way underfoot.
Mary whispered nervously, "Brother, it's scary here."
Shane forced a reassuring smile. "It's just temporary. Once we find something better, we'll move. I promise."
The third-floor corridor smelled of cooking oil, cheap soap, and spoiled food. A grimy transom window at the end let in a thin strip of light. Below it, the communal kitchen held rusty gas stoves, unwashed enamel dishes, and a locked iron pantry stocked with a few meager provisions.
Finally, they reached the last room on the left. Shane inserted the brass key into the rusty lock. The door groaned as it opened, releasing stale, enclosed air.
The room was modest: a narrow bed with a thin mattress, an old wardrobe, a small table, and a warped chair. Pipes snaked along the wall, leading to a tiny private toilet, the only plumbing in the space.
Despite its meager state, the room was clean. Sunlight filtered through the grimy window, illuminating the wooden floor with a warm, blurry glow.
Shane set down his suitcase, surveying their first home in the New World. Outside, vendors shouted, horses clopped on cobblestones, and ships whistled along the river. The sounds were alien yet alive.
Mary clung to his side, her red hair catching the slanted light. Shane inhaled the mixed scents of old wood and cooking oil, steeling himself. The future was uncertain, but their life in New York had begun.