Leo Finch, a whirlwind of ten-year-old energy and a kaleidoscope of LEGO colours, existed in a world most adults had long forgotten – a world where the impossible was merely a challenge waiting to be brick-built. His kingdom, the attic of their slightly-wonky Victorian house on Primrose Lane, was a testament to this belief. Sunlight, filtered through dust-motes dancing in the air, illuminated a landscape of meticulously constructed LEGO trains.
The Flying Scotsman, resplendent in its apple-green livery, puffed its way across a makeshift table-top, its tiny wheels clicking against the wooden surface. Nearby, the sleek, blue form of the Mallard stood poised, ready to break another speed record, if only Leo's imagination could conjure up a miniature wind tunnel. The Orient Express, a symphony of dark blue and gold, snaked its way through a cardboard mountain range, a testament to opulent travel and whispered secrets.
Leo himself, perched on an overturned bucket amidst the colourful chaos, was a sight to behold. His brown hair, perpetually escaping the confines of any comb, formed a wild halo around his face, his bright blue eyes alight with focused intensity. A smattering of freckles danced across his nose, like tiny LEGO studs themselves. His fingers, stained with the tell-tale hues of red, yellow, and blue plastic, moved with the practiced grace of a seasoned craftsman, carefully fitting a small, grey tile onto the roof of a miniature station.
He wasn't just building models; he was living them. As he added the tile, he imagined the hiss of steam, the rhythmic chug of the engine, the mournful wail of the whistle echoing through the valleys. He could almost feel the vibration of the carriage floor beneath his feet, hear the clatter of tea cups in the dining car, smell the coal smoke mingling with the crisp mountain air.
"Almost...perfect," he muttered to himself, tilting his head and squinting at his creation. "Just needs...a little something."