Kamen Rico, Oliver and Dodger. Click here. August 18th, 2026. The air in the London workhouse was heavy with the smell of wet hemp and stale porridge. Kamen Rico, newly arrived off the banana boat alongside Alfred Dodger, sat on a bench with the other children, his small hands working mechanically through the twists of heavy rope. They learned bowlines and clove hitches under the eye of the taskmaster, their hands raw, their pants stiff with coarse fabric. When the lanterns were turned low, the room swelled with the soft, mismatched voices of children clinging to home, singing Amazing Grace and How Great Thou Art into the shadows as they waited for their assignments. It was there Kamen witnessed Oliver’s abrupt departure—dragged away through the heavy oak doors for the unpardonable sin of asking for another ladle of food. Soon after, the children were dispatched one by one into the foggy city, assigned to families across the countryside. Kamen’s turn came on a rainy Tuesday. He was sent to a grand farm outside the city owned by a candy factory proprietor—a man married to a quiet, rigid woman named Janey Austin. Kamen’s place was not at the candy counters, but in the main house, assisting the lady of the kitchen, a warm-hearted Trinidadian woman whose presence made the cold English estate feel a little less foreign. While Kamen spent his mornings polishing brass, sweeping oak floors, and listening to the cook mutter longing thoughts about hot doubles wrapped in paper back home, his freedom ended at dusk. At five o'clock sharp, he was sent to the small, dark closet at the edge of the dining room. Through the narrow crack in the door, Kamen watched the family gather around the heavy mahogany table. He sat on the floor, listening to the clink of silverware, watching the father carve roast meat, and longing simply to sit in the warmth of the room—to be seen, to be included, to exist beyond the shadows of the closet. The Trinidadian lady held him close to her bosom and said"...don't worry my son. It is best to be thankful." He went to the closet as usual after 5 pm and the door was locked. He was there to watch and study. They said prayers and ate. This one night, the man's 20 year old daughter came to the closet door that was painted in green, the same colour of the barn outside and said to him, " it is best to be thankful. Life cannot be so easy. Could it be? It is best to be thankful." She left her scraps from her plate at the door. Kamen Rico opened the door and cried while thinking about what she said. "He decoxed to be equal and felt a strange tongue in him to say "en shoaw Lah" or something like that and said he would kill them all for sure, kill everything English, if the house was not his some day that he would be him..be him...the king of the world... or else the world will be dead." But right now, he was the dog as he saw their large sheep dog in the corner eating from a bowl full of the family's table scraps. To cover his emotions for now, he muttered " I am thankful" under his breath. After 20 days, he was given bed linen at his door by Janey Austen, the woman and wife of the man of the house. He was given a cot to sleep in the same room as the Trinidadian lady. In fact, he was thankful and learned being thankful helped. She brought him a plate of food every night with his own knife and fork, glass of cider and tea also. He was soo happy. The cook knew the weight of that loneliness. The next morning, as she boiled water for the morning tea, Kamen watched her closely. She dropped one white sugar cube into her cup. Then, with a swift, practiced motion, she slipped a second cube into a tiny leather satchel, carefully hiding it beneath her apron. She turned, caught Kamen watching, and offered a soft, knowing smile. She reached into her pocket, pulled out a second sugar cube, and pressed it quietly into his palm. The Trinidadian lady held Kamen close, her apron smelling of clove and scorched sugar. "Don't worry, my son," she whispered softly into his hair. "It is best to be thankful." At five o'clock, the routine claimed him again. Kamen stepped into the dark closet, and the heavy bolt slid shut from the outside. The green paint on the door was chipped and dull, the exact faded shade of the barn sitting out in the yard. Through the thin slit, he watched the family bow their heads, say their prayers, and begin their quiet supper. Later that night, footsteps approached the green door. The owner's twenty-year-old daughter stood on the other side, looking at him through the wooden slats. "It is best to be thankful," she said softly, her voice carrying a cold, matter-of-fact weight. "Life cannot be so easy. Could it be? It is best to be thankful." She set the scraped remains of her dinner plate on the floor by the latch and walked away. Kamen pulled the plate inside and wept in the dark, the words twisting in his mind. A fierce, sudden rage burned through the sorrow, bringing a strange, unfamiliar language to his tongue—a dark, ancient rhythm muttering inside him. He swore to himself that he would not remain a shadow forever. One day, the house would be his. He would be the master, the king of his own world, or tear it all down trying. But then he looked across the floor and saw the family’s large sheepdog curled in the corner, happily crunching on a bowl filled with identical table scraps. For now, he was no different than the dog. To smother the fury rising in his chest, he swallowed his pride and muttered under his breath, "I am thankful." Twenty days passed in that green-doored shadows. Then, everything shifted. One evening, Jane Austen herself walked down the corridor holding a stack of clean, folded bed linen. She set the sheets at his door and unlocked the latch for good. Kamen was given a small wooden cot inside the warm back room shared by the Trinidadian cook. From that night on, the dark closet was left behind. Every evening, the cook brought him a full plate of warm food, setting it down alongside a proper knife and fork, a glass of cider, and a steaming mug of tea. Settling into the soft linen of his cot, feeling the warmth of the room and the comfort of a full belly, Kamen looked across at the cook and smiled. He was truly happy—and for the first time, the gratitude he spoke was real. ///// The next morning at seven, the fog was just beginning to lift over the farm. Kamen Rico stood by the kitchen window, a mug of warm tea in his hands, watching the scene unfold near the green barn. The master of the house was pacing back and forth, towering over his twenty-year-old daughter. He was furious. Mail meant for his wife—crucial publishing contracts for her books—had gone missing. The girl stood silent, refusing to explain why she had taken them, but in her heart, a single bitter thought repeated: She wanted to know what she would get. She couldn't bear to see the master's wife succeed. "Bring the salt," the master finally barked, exasperated, before gesturing toward the building. "Go to the barn." It was no ordinary barn, but a quiet, secluded birthing room; no animals in there. Tucked away inside the wooden carriages, parked right beside the horses—Oswald, Geraldine, and Annette—lay the stolen mail, hidden away in the dark. It was there, amidst the straw, that truth hung heavy in the air: the girl was not the master’s daughter at all, but the secret child of the Trinidadian cook. Disgraced, she was sent away, sold off to a stern, one-legged soldier who chopped off one of her fingers as punishment for her thefts. Yet, strangely, the bitterness of the world seemed to bend around them. On certain evenings, she would return to the estate for dinner. They would sit around the mahogany table, sharing meals and singing hymns, praising the Lord as if the trauma of the past had simply melted away. Years rolled by, and Kamen Rico grew tall and steady. He moved from the quiet shadows of the kitchen to a position of true seniority. He spent his spare hours studying the heavy family Bible resting on the master’s desk, learning to read, write, and understand the ways of the household. True to his heart, he was genuinely thankful. Every time the post arrived, Kamen made sure the mail was handed directly and safely into the hands of the master and his author wife. He continued to share the cozy back room with the Trinidadian cook, who cared for him like family, though she was not his mother. A new boy came and the lady of the house, after reading the story of Daniel, repented of her ways and decided to allow the new boy to sit at the table. She had also read an article in the Times of London about nature and nurture. He was also from the West Indies. In this different approach, Kamen had emotions he never noticed before. He whispered to the boy, ".. you will not have or be more than me. Who do you think you will be?" He then stole one foot of his school shoes after polishing them for the boy and left the shoe in the dog's bed. This happened for several months, every day, until she decided to just send the boy to boarding school. She was tired of these shenanigans and no one knows who does It. Kamen said it was the dog; probably... probably. CLICK HERE.