SS Inglefield
He couldn’t remember the first time he’d ever seen his mother’s necklace. He couldn’t remember if it was in the before or the after, but why did that matter? It was his favourite thing about his mother, however unfair that was. Her necklace was simple, a heart-shaped locket, with intricate swirling patterns traced finely into the metal. He could stare at it for hours, holding it gently between grubby fingers, afraid of his own filth contaminating the jewellery. His mother would always come back to get it, running long fingers through his ebony hair, sighing at his fascination. She didn’t quite understand.
