Author's Note: This is a story that has been on my mind for the past three years and I finally have the opportunity to get it out into the world. It's meant to be a deconstruction on the whole idea of Thomas the Tank Engine and why he and his stories have endured for so many years. It takes inspiration from his origins and even other incarnations in the franchise. If this prologue is proven to be successful enough among readers, I might be tempted to continue publishing the whole story in chapters. I hope you enjoy.

In the junction, the tall, slender man stared at the front of the train.

Of all the ones he had designed in his career, this one was a particular favorite of his. While all the others he had made were the usual dull gray and brown, this one was an explosion of blue, yellow, red, and black. While all the others were hulking giants that could pull ten times their weight, this one was small and compact, in comparison at least, because it was a recent model called a "tank engine". While all the others were only machines in his eyes, meant to pull under the command of their driver, this one felt distinctly….human.

The man climbed over the bumpers of the engine, sat on his knees, and placed his hand on the front of its smoke box. The cold metal beneath his palm felt like ice to him, so he pulled his hand away. After hearing the stories he and his son had made together, he felt like there was something missing there. Like a face. He could almost see the soulful eyes and the wide smile beaming back at him. He chuckled to himself at the ideas that only children could come up with.

He brought himself back down, walked past the brilliant yellow 1 on the engine's side and climbed into its cab. In front of him way an array of knobs, dials, and levers, and a furnace that was just waiting to be ignited. With his immense knowledge on the function of a train, he started it up, his ears feasting on the music of his creation coming to life for the first time.

There was just one thing left that needed to be taken care of; the rope for the whistle hanging from the ceiling that was just calling to be grabbed. And grab it he did but not before uttering three words…..

"Happy birthday, Thomas."