Some say Bermondsey's eyes were green because he was born with the envy in his gaze. He just chalked it up to the fact that his mother's eyes were gold and his father's ones were blue, and didn't the two of them create him? He wasn't sure that was how it worked, but it didn't matter. It went into the box he shoved everything else into. The box he rarely revisited. 

Some say that years from now, they might not exist. Ten years from now, he'd surely be dead. A hundred years and perhaps the world would be engulfed in fire, or water, ever changing and always the same, yet only without him. A town in which he didn't exist. Eventually, everything ends. Everything moves on. 

He didn't have time to wait. He had always been the impatient one. 

Stalking through the streets, only illuminated by the few flickering lamps, his eyes glowed in the dark, determined in their search. There were so many blanks left in the tom's plans, so many blanks left in this clay figurine he called his identity, but it didn't stop him. He found himself wandering off to the borders once more, the way he did when he was stressed, silent as a ghost.