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The moving truck stopped at the mouth of an alley veiled in a faint gray mist. Deep within the lane, a house number flickered in and out of view through the fog: Misty Lane. Ten-year-old Leo, holding a cardboard box containing his most precious possessions—a starry sky projector and an old nautical compass left by his grandfather—looked up at his new home: Number 99. It was a Victorian-style terraced house with red brick walls, white window frames, and a large black door, looking both ancient and silent. His parents were excitedly unloading, but Leo felt a hollow emptiness inside. Moving from Edinburgh to London meant a new beginning, but also saying goodbye to all his old friends in the Scottish Highlands. He took a deep breath of London's damp air, pushed open the heavy black door, its hinges emitting a long, drawn-out 'creak,' like an ancient sigh. A scent of old books, polished wood, and faint baked cookies washed over him.