She makes her way towards Whitby Bridge, her canvas bag dangling over her shoulder, but she can’t resist looking back, just once, half-expecting the puppet to be waving. Of course, he isn’t.

It’s a chilly grey October morning, and the tips of her ears and nose begin to tingle with the cold. The sea air tastes salty on her tongue, as she stops for a moment halfway across the bridge, pulling her woolly hat down over her ears. The sea matches the grey of the clouds like a Fifties twin set. Fishing boats and trawlers bob on the water, lobster pots stacked on the harbourside.

‘Dad used to love this place,’ she says, bending to kiss the dog’s head. ‘It was his inspiration. But then you know that more than anyone, don’t you, gorgeous boy?’

Before tears invade, she straightens up, and turns from the nostalgic view, taking a deep breath. Yanking on Henry’s lead, she pulls him away from a pug he seems to have taken a liking to, and makes her way to the other side of the bridge, before heading up Church Street towards ‘Alice’s Sculptures in Wonderland’, the shop she named after her favourite book, which her father read to her when she was a child.

Once there she stares in the shop window. The shop’s woodwork is charcoal black, and a sign – black with gold lettering – is fixed to the wall.

Several of her fantastical sculptures are snuggled into silky black fabric amongst small pumpkins, but there’s no sign of Gothic House.

She pushes the door open, and steps inside. The walls seem to wrap around her like a hug, and the slight smell of damp that she can’t quite get rid of, and the aroma of coffee percolating, are familiar and comforting. It’s good to be back – a step in the right direction.

‘Hey, Alice.’ Faith smiles from behind the counter, surrounded by her homemade jewellery. Alice agreed a few months back that she could sell it at the shop. ‘Ooh, and how lovely to see gorgeous Henry too,’ Faith adds.

Alice fishes the sculpture she’s been working on from her bag, strips away black tissue paper, and puts it on the counter. ‘Ta da! What do you think?’

‘Wow! It’s amazing,’ Faith says, as she strokes Henry, who seems delighted to see her. ‘As I’ve said before, you are one talented lady.’

‘Thanks.’ Alice feels the usual blush creeping up her neck.

Faith moves her hand from Henry’s back, and he sprawls on the floor, and closes his eyes. She stares at the sculpture of a desperate-looking figure made from twisted copper, a man clambering out of a grave, his hands stretching upwards, fingers contorted, mouth wide open as though screaming, flesh torn. ‘Though I wouldn’t want to spend too long inside your head,’ she says.