The chill wind off the River Tyne bit at Thaddeus Beaumont's face as he trudged down Congress Street. He clutched his threadbare coat tighter, pulling it up over his chin. New Republic wasn’t exactly known for its warmth, and the October air carried a dampness that seeped into your bones. He hadn't planned on ending up here. Not at seventy-three. After years spent as a bookbinder in the City of Elmsworth, he'd thought his life would wind down among familiar scents of glue and leather, surrounded by stacks of well-worn novels. But when the shop had closed due to "unforeseen circumstances" – a euphemism for dwindling clientele and rising rent – Thaddeus realized his carefully constructed world had crumbled around him. So he'd packed what little remained, a few cherished books, some tools from the shop, and a heart heavy with uncertainty. Elmsworth felt distant now, a ghost of a life lived. The cobblestone streets of New Republic seemed to echo the emptiness within him. He wasn’t one for idle contemplation. Thaddeus believed in hard work, honest living, and the unwavering pursuit of knowledge. He'd spent his life immersed in stories, in worlds woven from ink and paper. These tales had become his compass, guiding him through both joy and hardship. Now, as he stared at the imposing shadow of Congress Gate looming over the street, Thaddeus felt a flicker of hope. Perhaps this was a new chapter waiting to be written. He might not have much left in terms of material wealth, but he carried something far more valuable: a lifetime's worth of experience, a mind sharpened by countless stories, and a heart yearning for purpose. He squared his shoulders and stepped forward, ready to face whatever this unfamiliar city held. After all, even the oldest tales began with a single step into the unknown.