The Sharpest Jewel |Alfie Solomons|

~ Chapter 5 ~

Camden London 1903.

Two years had passed since Ollie's mother had died. It had been a cold, gray day in the middle of winter when the news came, shattering the small world Florence had known. The days after had been a blur of somber faces and hushed voices, and the sight of Ollie—usually so full of life—hunched over in grief had torn at Florence's heart. He had gone to live with distant relatives, an uncle and aunt who had taken him in. They'd moved him out of his school to a more "respectable" school, far from the familiar streets they'd once roamed together.

Though two years had passed, the absence of Ollie in Florence's life still felt raw. The house next door remained occupied, but it was no longer filled with the warmth of Mrs. Thompson's laughter or the sound of Ollie's feet running up the steps. Florence missed the boy who had once been her constant companion—the one who would knock on the door each morning and wait for her by the gate after school.

At seven years old, Florence had been too young to fully understand the weight of death. But now, at nine, she felt the void every day. Ollie's departure had left her more alone than ever. The schoolyard was no longer a place of shared games and whispered secrets; instead, it was a lonely expanse where Florence struggled to find her place.

Her classmates, most of whom had known each other for years, had their own tight-knit groups. Florence, with her quiet demeanor and thoughtful green eyes, often found herself on the fringes, watching the others from a distance. She didn't mind it at first—she had never been the type to chase after friendships—but as time wore on, the loneliness began to gnaw at her. She would sit by herself during breaks, watching as the other children laughed and played, their voices blending into a background hum she couldn't seem to break through.

She missed Ollie terribly, but she hadn't heard from him in months. At first, he'd written letters—brief, polite notes that were far different from the boisterous boy she had known. His handwriting had grown neater, more controlled, and his words seemed distant, as though he were writing to a stranger rather than his old friend. The letters had come less and less frequently, and eventually, they had stopped altogether.

Florence would often walk by his old house after school, gazing at the windows where she'd once seen him wave down to her. The house, though still lived in by another family, seemed haunted to her now, its familiar walls holding too many memories. Sometimes she could still hear their laughter echoing in the alleyways, see the shadows of their younger selves running down the cobbled streets. But they were only ghosts of a past that had long since slipped away.

The Wardens noticed the change in her. Mrs. Warden, always attentive and loving, tried to engage her in conversation more often, offering small comforts—a new book to read, her favorite biscuits fresh out of the oven—but Florence's smiles had become quieter, more subdued. She still helped around the house and attended school diligently, but something had shifted. There was a loneliness to her now that hadn't been there before.

One evening, after school, Florence trudged through the front door, her bag slung over her shoulder. "I'm home," she called, her voice lacking its usual cheer.  Mrs. Warden appeared from the kitchen, her apron dusted with flour. She gave Florence a warm smile, though it was tinged with concern. "Hello, love. How was school?"

"It was alright," Florence answered, shrugging off her coat and hanging it on the peg. Mrs. Warden watched her carefully. She could see the fatigue in Florence's posture, the way her shoulders drooped slightly under the weight of the day. She wiped her hands on her apron and stepped closer, placing a gentle hand on Florence's shoulder. "Why don't you sit with me a moment?" Mrs. Warden suggested, guiding Florence toward the table. "I've made tea, and there's some gingerbread cooling."