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Mrs. Higgins smiled, a tight but kind expression, and used her small metal scoop to retrieve a handful of striped lemon drops—the last of the batch. Outside, the streets were shifting. The old terraced houses were slated for demolition, replaced by modern concrete that didn't smell like coal fires and freshly baked bread.

She knew she wouldn't be there long. The shop was a relic, and she was, too. But for now, as she handed over the twist of paper, the sweetshop still held its magic. As she watched the boy run off to join his friends, she picked up her paintbrush to document the scene on a small, primed wooden board, determined to capture the bright colors of the sweets before they were gone forever. 138441.jpg

The year was 1950, and the air in the small corner shop on Rotten Row was thick with the scent of boiled sugar, aniseed, and impending change. Mrs. Higgins, whose family had run the shop since her grandfather’s time, adjusted her spectacles, her fingers hovering over the glass jars. The old terraced houses were slated for demolition,