Night fell softly upon the city of London. All was silent and peaceful. The only sounds to be heard were the squeaking of mice and the barking of dogs. Most of the city’s inhabitant’s were asleep, save those who were mourning the passing of a relative. One such person was a girl named Angela. Her mother had always called her ‘angel’. Always, until now.
The girl was crying.
Her mother lay in a ditch, her face forever frozen in a hideous death-grin, her eyes staring into the starry sky, never to close in peaceful death. She had been touched by the Black Death. The girl cried, for now she had no one to whisper her secrets to, no one to call her ‘angel’. Barely ten years old, she was already alone in the world. Finally, exhausted by her grief, she fell asleep beside the cold, still body of her mother.
Morning came, and Angela packed the few belongings she had. She kissed her mother tenderly on the cheek and made a vow. She vowed never to cry again, to be strong and to make her mother proud of her. She dragged her mother’s body to a secluded spot and buried her, saying a prayer before she left.
She wandered the streets of London, searching for employment, a way to earn a living. She was young and strong, willing to accept any task, no matter how menial. However, no one wanted Angela, a mere uneducated street urchin. Very soon, what little money she had, had been spent. She was reduced to stealing to survive. She grew emaciated as the days passed.
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