To this day no one knew what had happened to Emma.
A bone rattling chill settled over the streets of London. The December air was crisp in the cold wind, foretelling that snow was on its way. People walked the streets, bundled tightly under their layers and clutching their overcoats close. It was the time of year ladies ordained thicker gloves to protect their dainty fingers and swaddled themselves with rich furs about their shoulders. The tinkle of the bell sounded as Mr. White’s final customer left his shop. He adjusted his spectacles and peered out of the glass paned window, scanning the streets before flipping the ‘open’ sign to the ‘closed’ side. Mr White disappeared into the back of the shop. Absentmindedly as he cleaned his workbenches with a cloth, he glanced at Emma, sitting quietly on top of an unused bench with her little legs dangling off the edge.
“Blimey it’s been a long day, hasn’t it?” Mr White exclaimed.