The Sharpest Jewel | Alfie Solomons |

- 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝟓 -

Camden London 1903.

Two years later, the ache hadn't dulled.

Florence, at nine years old, no longer believed in the magic of simple things the way she once had. Time had passed, yes—but grief had only settled deeper into the corners of her life. It sat beneath her growing ribs like a cold stone. The absence of Ollie wasn't just something she noticed; it had become a part of her. A gap in the rhythm of her days.

His old house, once full of light and noise, had long since been let to another family. Mrs. Dahans hearty laugh no longer drifted through the windows, and the sound of Ollie's boots scrambling up the steps had gone silent. A new child lived there now—a boy much older than Florence who didn't speak much and rarely smiled. The shutters were always drawn.

But Florence still passed the house every day after school. She didn't mean to—it simply stood between her and home, unavoidable. And every time she walked by, she glanced at the upper window, half-expecting to see a face behind the glass. Sometimes, in the low winter light, she imagined she did. A flicker. A shadow. But when she blinked, it was always gone. She missed him. Desperately.

At school, the loneliness clung to her like a second skin. The other girls gathered in their usual cliques—braiding each other's hair, giggling over secrets passed in folded notes. The boys played marbles and kicked up dirt behind the shed, their laughter erupting like firecrackers. Florence sat alone most days, perched on the edge of the yard wall with her knees tucked under her chin, watching. Listening. But never quite entering.

They didn't mean to exclude her. Not exactly. But she had always been quiet, and quieter still now. Her green eyes missed nothing, but her voice had grown softer, reserved. Her classmates had known each other since before they could read. She was the girl who used to laugh with the boy who vanished. She had become a footnote in someone else's story.

It hadn't always been like that. In the early days, she had tried. She'd brought Ollie's favorite skipping rope to school, hoping it might invite someone to join. She'd brought biscuits to share. But they had smiled politely and returned to their games, leaving her standing there with the rope coiled in her hands like a question no one wanted to answer.

Mrs. Warden noticed the change. She always did. She'd watch Florence from across the kitchen table, eyes creased with concern as the girl picked absently at her food. She baked her favorite biscuits more often, left small bundles of books on her bed, and invited her to help with sewing—anything to draw her out.

"You're awful quiet lately, love," she'd say, brushing hair from Florence's forehead. The little girl would only nod. But the truth was, sadness wasn't something she wore. It lived in her now, quietly, like an old friend.

At night, she sometimes crept to her window and looked out across the narrow street. The moonlit roofs, the empty alleyway where she and Ollie once chased each other, the patch of wall where they'd etched their initials with a found nail—all of it remained, unchanged. But it no longer belonged to them.

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."