London, 1989
The morning sun filtered softly through the curtains, warming the simple bedroom Isaac Hale called his own. Posters of dinosaurs, rockets, and comic heroes hung on the walls, and the faint scent of old books and dust lingered in the corners.
Nine-year-old Isaac stretched under the covers and smiled. Saturday. No school. No early alarm. Just a quiet start and maybe football later, if the weather held.
Downstairs, the gentle murmur of voices and the smell of toast greeted him. He padded down in his socks, finding his foster father Alan at the table, reading the paper, and his foster mother Elaine humming softly in the kitchen as she made breakfast.
"Morning," Isaac said, rubbing sleep from his eyes.
"Morning, champ," Alan replied. "You want your eggs runny or ruined?"
"Runny, please," Isaac said with a grin.
Elaine looked over and gave him a smile. "Did you sleep well ?"
Isaac nodded. "Yes, mom"
The three of them shared a calm, comfortable breakfast. It was an ordinary sort of morning—the kind that didn't seem important at the time, but would come to feel very different in retrospect.
After eating, Isaac went back upstairs and did his homework . Fractions and grammar. Not the most exciting way to start a weekend, but he didn't mind. He likes studying.
By late morning, he had finished and packed his things away. After tugging on his jumper and trainers, he shouted, "I'm heading out!"
Elaine's voice called back, "Be back before three! Don't lose your jumper again!"
He laughed and shut the door behind him.
The local park was already buzzing. A small group of boys kicked a ball around near the faded goalposts. Isaac ran to join them, and soon the game was in full swing. No names, no teams—just the shared thrill of chasing a muddy ball around and scoring the occasional goal.
Isaac wasn't the biggest or the best, but he was quick and sharp. He played hard, made smart passes, and laughed along when someone tripped or fell into the wet grass. For a while, there was nothing else—just the game and the rhythm of running.
As the clouds thickened and the breeze picked up, the group slowly disbanded. A few boys drifted off together, talking loudly. Isaac gave a cheerful wave and started the walk home alone.
He took his usual shortcut behind the bakery, hopped a low wall, and came out onto a quieter road near a crossing light. The street was empty. The little green man blinked, telling him it was safe to go.
Isaac stepped off the curb.
That's when he heard it.
A roar of an engine—too close, too fast.
His head snapped toward the sound. A black car rounded the corner, swerving wildly. The driver wasn't slowing down.
Time seemed to slow. Isaac's legs froze.
He couldn't move. Couldn't breathe.
Then—
WHOOOMPH.
A sudden blast of wind hit him from the side, as if an invisible wave of air had slammed into his chest. It wasn't natural—not like a gust through the trees or a cold breeze. This felt targeted, like a hand pushing him away.
Isaac was flung backward, away from the path of the car. He landed hard on the pavement, his head striking the curb with a sickening crack.
The car shot past the spot he had just been standing. Tires screeched. A horn blared. Then silence.
Isaac's vision swam. The world around him blurred, his ears ringing. His fingers twitched. Something warm trickled down his temple.
Before darkness took him, he had one final, flickering thought:
'That wind wasn't normal…'
End of Chapter One