The Sharpest Jewel |Alfie Solomons|

~ Chapter 21 ~

Small heath, Birmingham 1918.

Florence's journey from the battle-scarred fields of Northern France to the bustling streets of Birmingham was a strange one. The war was over, but the world felt no less chaotic. The train from Calais was packed, full of soldiers returning home, civilians trying to rebuild their lives, and the strange, empty quiet of a world learning how to live without the constant noise of war.

Florence had stayed behind longer than most, unable to walk away from her duty as a nurse so easily. Even after the Armistice, she felt tethered to the remnants of the war. The field hospitals had slowly emptied, and her patients were transferred to other places or, like Robbie, didn't make it at all. She had stayed busy for as long as she could, but now her duty had shifted. She had one last promise to keep, one last message to deliver. With Robbie's letter folded carefully in her coat pocket, she boarded a ship back to England. The crossing was quiet, the sea still under a gray, overcast sky. Florence leaned against the railing, watching the horizon grow closer, unsure of what awaited her on the other side. She had grown used to the weight of war pressing down on her every moment, and the idea of returning to something normal—something without blood, without the cries of men in pain—felt almost too far away to imagine.

Once in England, she took a train north from Dover, the countryside rolling past the window in a blur of green and brown. The land looked peaceful here, untouched by the violence that had ravaged the fields of France, but the people on the train told a different story. Men with vacant stares, their uniforms still dirty and torn, sat slumped in their seats. Women with haunted eyes clutched children or stared out of windows in silence. Florence felt a strange kinship with these passengers—they had all seen the war, and they all carried it with them in some way.

Arriving in Birmingham, Florence was met with the overwhelming noise of a city trying to return to life. There were markets bustling with people, children running in the streets, and the smell of coal and industry hanging in the air. It was a far cry from the ruined villages and desolate battlefields she had grown accustomed to. For a moment, she felt adrift in the crowd, uncertain where to go.

The address Robbie had given her was somewhere on the outskirts of the city, in a quiet neighborhood he had described in his stories. But finding it wasn't easy. The streets all seemed to blend into one another especially with the thick layer of white snow covering any signs to give a vague sense of direction, and after asking for directions from a few people—none of whom seemed to know exactly where the street was—Florence grew frustrated. By the time she reached what she thought was the right neighborhood, the sky had grown dim, the winter sun sinking early behind rows of brick houses. She walked up and down the streets, squinting at the numbers on the doors, but something felt off. The houses didn't match Robbie's descriptions of his childhood home—he had talked about a little garden out front, and none of the homes she passed had that.

After what felt like hours of searching, Florence finally stopped an older woman walking with a basket on her arm. "Excuse me Miss," Florence said, her voice hoarse from the cold air. "Do you know where I might find this address?" She unfolded the paper and showed the woman. The woman squinted at it, then smiled. "Ah, you're not far, love. Just two streets down that way, and then take a left. You'll see it—it's got a little garden out front." Florence felt a flood of relief and thanked the woman before heading in the direction she had pointed. Sure enough, after two streets and a left turn, she saw a small house with a patch of garden, just as Robbie had described. It was modest but well-kept, with ivy creeping up the front and a little wooden gate that creaked when she pushed it open.

She stood there for a moment, staring at the front door, her heart racing. She had been prepared for this, but now that she was here, it felt so much harder. She had to tell a woman and man that there little boy was dead. He had survived the war but died just few weeks after that he fought and served but yet he still died. Taking a deep breath, she touched the letter in her pocket, feeling its crumpled edges between her fingers. It was time. She had come this far; she couldn't turn back now.