[BaggieSteve]

January 2021.  Britain lies in the grip of lockdown.  Outside, a frigid wind nudges stray litter through forbidding streets.  The pubs and nightclubs sit dark, devoid of Saturday joy.  A grey hollowness gnaws at every corner of the empty world.  But in the deepest wastes of Lower Gornal, a faint sound pierces the silence.

The mournful scraping of a solitary black crayon on a bedsheet.

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