Standing on Union Street in the chill darkness of a December's eve in London, he was only a few blocks from where the home he and his mother had shared had been. On the third day, he'd gone to look, finding that the buildings weren't quite what he remembered. In place of their brownstone was a candlemaker's shoppe, and he'd gone inside, coming out
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When she can help it, she focuses on the parts of this city that belong to the island, or to Spike, as opposed to those that are Angel's to haunt. Spike makes it easy tonight, manifesting almost miraculously on a stoop just ahead, and when she greets him, she looks and feels genuinely happy. (Relieved is a type of happy, isn't it?)
"Quiet man sits alone in the dark with box," she says, as if reciting a newspaper headline, as she sits down beside him. "It's pretty. Almost feminine looking, some might say."
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Flipping open the box, the song began to play, a soft metallic clang as the little gears turned inside.
"Belonged to me Mum. She didn't have many pretty things, never had want of them, but these were her favorites."
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