TOM

Thomas Wilson—or simply Tom—was nineteen years old. Not merely an ordinary boy, but a delicate and complex being; beautiful in a way that didn’t immediately catch the eye, with a heart that sometimes beat in an irregular rhythm and an extraordinary mind that always seemed lost in its own world. A true introvert, with piercing blue eyes, pale skin, and light brown hair. His round black glasses never left his face—not because his eyesight was poor, but because they seemed to be a part of him; a pane of glass that made the outside world bearable.

Paris had drawn him in. Not for love, nor for adventure—but for art. The École des Beaux-Arts, where color and form were supposed to find meaning. But real life, as always, followed its own path.

The student dormitory, with all its noise and enforced camaraderie, felt more like a refuge than a home to Tom. A place where one could exist without truly being seen.

His parents lived in London. Catherine—his mother—was a woman whose heart was as warm as the sweaters she knitted. She worried about Tom, always, with a boundless affection that could be felt even from afar.

But Gerald Wilson, his father, a retired army general, was a man who seemed to have been born with a scowl. Serious, rigid, and, in his worst moments, harsh. Tom’s arguments with him—which resembled interrogations more than conversations—had become an inseparable part of his life. Gerald believed his son should “endure hardship” and stand on his own feet, even though he himself had never lacked for anything. For that reason, despite the family’s wealth, no money ever reached Tom.

To make ends meet, Tom was forced to work nights in a restaurant. Not as a waiter, nor as a cook—but as a cleaner. A difficult and exhausting job that wore down his tall, slender body even further. He had no muscle, but his spirit was filled with something the body could not possess: a creativity that lived inside his small leather notebook. His pen came alive on those pages—drawings, writings, images that belonged only to him.

The notebook was Tom’s private world. A world that no one had the right to enter.

This situation—the exhaustion, the loneliness, the frail appearance—made him the perfect target for the wrong kind of attention. David Brown and his gang, with the familiar delight of those who enjoy the weakness of others, constantly mocked Tom. Tom never reacted. No fights, no defense, no escape. He simply watched.

He preferred to remain immersed in his own world.