The phone just wouldn't stop ringing.

Flora rose from the couch, setting the book she was reading aside, and trudged over to the kitchen to answer it. Her socks squeaked harshly against the wooden flooring. She groaned as she lifted the phone. "Hello?"

"Hello, er, yes, who is this?" A man's voice. She could hear the sound of pouring rain muffled in the background. Phone booth, maybe?

Flora glared at the wall. She didn't even know who this is. "If you want to talk to Professor Layton then he isn't home."

"And who might you be, then?"

Flora wasn't expecting this. "I'm his daughter. And I could say the same to you, stranger. Who are you?"

"Listen, Flora," the man coaxed. Flora jumped at the usage of her name. "It's me, your uncle Desmond."

"You mean, like, Reinhold-wise or Bronev-wise?" she asked grumpily. This guy seemed fishy.

"Bronev-wise, if that's how you want to put it. Do you really not know? God. By this, I'm assuming he never told you… but anyhow. Flora, I'm here in London and I happen to need a place to stay. I've been talking to Hershel about coming to visit for quite a while now, he's told me quite a bit about you." He paused. After getting no response from Flora, (except for some eye-rolls that he couldn't see over the phone, of course) he continued on. "I'm not far away, could I stop by?"

Flora didn't know what to say. Should she let him? "What was the name again?"
"Desmond Sycamore. Or maybe you've heard of Hershel Bronev? Or," he sighed, "Maybe… Luke has told you about a man who went as Jean Descole?"

Flora remembered those stories Luke had told her. "Sure, I recognize the last one. Was he was the one with all of the robots and shit like that?"

Desmond let out an extremely audible sigh. "Flora, the language…. what are you, fourteen?"

"I'm seventeen, mind you. And I'm sorry, Mr. I'm Supposed To Be Your Uncle, it's late and I'm not really in the mood for believing random strangers who try to call my dad."

There was a long pause. Flora stood in silence, wondering if she should hang up.

"Please, Flora."

Feeling a slight twinge of guilt, Flora gave in. "Fine. Come if you want. I don't care."

"That's what Hershel would want. Good girl."

The line went dead.

Flora hung the phone back on the wall and stormed back into the living room, opening the blinds on the window at the front of the Layton residence that faced out onto the street. Pacing to their small dining room, she grabbed a chair, dragged it into the living room and positioned it in front of the window.

She'd be waiting.

Desmond stood at the doorstep, umbrella in hand. The rain poured harder. It was time to stop dawdling and knock.

He didn't notice the pair of eyes peering at him through the blinds.

As he extended his hand, the door opened automatically. Someone had opened it for him- a girl in a sweater, caramel curls looping over her shoulders, her brown eyes glaring down at him. The only difference, it seemed.

"God, you look so much like her," he stammered.

Flora slammed the door.

Desmond's trance was broken. "Flora! I'm sorry! Please!" his yell faded into a whimper. "Please let me in, Flora. I-"

Silence from the other end.

Desmond looked down at the steps. he'd be sitting here for a while.