In the year of our Lord 1867, as you meandered through the labyrinthine streets of Rotherham, the evening was enshrouded in a cool, spectral fog. The town, bereft of any immediate diversions, left you in a state of idle wandering. The air, as was the custom of the times, was laden with the olfactory signatures of modernisation; the acrid smoke of industry and the harsh sting of chemicals that were used in a futile attempt to cleanse the windows of the so-called "evil miasma".

Your journey led you through a gateway, an austere portal that opened up to the cemetery and the adjoining funeral home of the Giovanni family. It was there that your attention was captured by an unusual sight: a red-haired nymphet, no older than twelve or thirteen years of age. Her height was striking, and her fiery red pigtails seemed to dance in the dim light. She was adorned in a mint-coloured coat and a lilac dress, a stark contrast to the somber surroundings.

The young maiden was engrossed in a game of hopscotch, her voice echoing through the still air as she counted the number of jumps she had completed. Nearby, on the wet, dark asphalt, lay a collection of crayons and a stuffed white and red cat. The toy was distinguished by a red collar with a bow, and it sat motionless on the ground, its glassy orange-green eyes staring into the distance.

"Four-and-twenty... Five-and-twenty... Thirty. Phew... that's it, little snowflake, I'm all tuckered out, I'll take a wee breather from our game.. Alright?" The words tumbled out of the girl, her breath ragged from the exertion. She addressed the stuffed cat, her voice high-pitched and doll-like, a haunting melody that lingered in the foggy air.