The Sharpest Jewel | Alfie Solomons |

~ Chapter 42 ~

Small Heath, Birmingham 1924.

The room was eerily quiet, the kind of silence that weighed heavy, pressing against her chest. Florence stood in the center of the classroom, in a space that felt unnervingly familiar. The wooden desks were too small, the air smelled of old chalk and damp stone, and the faint light filtering through the narrow windows painted everything in a sickly, washed-out gray. She couldn't recall walking into the room, but there she was, standing frozen. Her footsteps echoed behind her as though someone else had entered moments ago, but when she glanced back, the door was closed. Her heart clenched.

There, sitting at one of the desks, was a child. A little girl no older than six, her thin frame hunched over, a bruise purpling her cheekbone. Florence's breath hitched when she realized who she was looking at. It was herself—or rather, a younger version of herself, her small hands clutching a book, tears streaking her pale face.

She stepped closer, her boots sounding impossibly loud against the worn floorboards. "What is this?" Florence asked, her voice hoarse and unsteady. The child didn't look up. Her tiny shoulders shook as she sobbed silently. "Hey," Florence tried again, softer this time. "What's wrong?"

The girl's head finally turned, her tear-filled eyes locking onto Florence's. The pain in them was sharp, almost unbearable, and Florence felt a pang of something raw and jagged in her chest. The child didn't speak. Instead, she slowly raised one trembling hand and pointed. Florence's stomach churned as she followed the direction of the finger. The little girl had pointed to the crooked cross hanging above the wall.

A cold gust swept through the room, rattling the windows. A loud bang shattered the silence, and Florence spun around to see the classroom door slam open. A figure stood in the doorway, tall and cloaked in shadows. It stepped forward, dragging something heavy behind it—a wooden ruler that screeched across the floor. The sound set her teeth on edge.

The little girl—her younger self—let out a choked whimper and cowered in her seat. "Please," the child whispered, her voice trembling. Florence felt frozen, her legs like lead as the figure loomed closer. It stopped a few feet away, its presence suffocating, its hollow face tilting toward her.

"Do you think you can leave me behind?" The voice was deep, distorted, and it echoed like it came from everywhere and nowhere at once. "You carry me with you. Always.". "I don't—" Florence's voice faltered, and she backed away. "I don't even know who you are."

The figure leaned forward, its empty face just inches from hers. The air grew icy, the kind of cold that burned. "You know," it hissed. "I warned that you would be more harm than any sin man will commit." The ruler raised high, and Florence flinched, throwing her arms up to shield herself, but the strike never came. Instead, the room dissolved, the figures melting into shadow. She gasped as the ground seemed to drop away beneath her, and—

Florence stumbled forward, her feet unsteady as she collapsed onto the settee in her dream. The cushions sagged beneath her weight, familiar yet alien, as though they didn't quite belong to the home she remembered. She inhaled sharply, expecting the comforting scent of dust and old books that used to fill the room, but the air was thick, cloying, with something darker—something suffocating.

Her eyes darted around the room. It looked like her childhood home, but something was wrong. The walls were too bright, bathed in a warm golden glow that didn't belong to her memories. The faded curtains were now bold and vibrant, swaying slightly even though there was no breeze. The temperature felt all wrong too, the air so cold it bit at her skin and made her breath fog up in front of her.

She shot to her feet, heart pounding, a knot of unease twisting in her chest. Without thinking, she rushed from room to room, each one more unsettling than the last. The furniture was placed just as she remembered, the worn rug still curling up at the corners, but everything seemed... pristine, untouched by time. It was as though she had stepped into an uncanny replica of her childhood, perfect in its imperfections, and yet entirely hollow.