What if there had been a future Flora? Who would she be, and how would she fit into the story? I guess you'll have to read to find out :D
Disclaimer: I do not own Professor Layton. Darn.
It was time. Exactly four fifty-six pm, just as he said. It was at this time that she was to set out to the clock shop, arriving at exactly five o clock, the exact time when phase two of the plan would begin, when it must begin. Clive always was very meticulous, and even the slightest slip-up could crush his excruciatingly complex plan into the ground. It was with this thought in mind, and the thought of what he would do if she was late, that made the girl slowly force herself to cross the small room towards the door. All the objects in the way made it difficult to discern the room's foremost purpose as a bedroom, except for the bed in the far corner, and the large mahogany dresser against one of the walls. In its mirror behind the dirty glass, the girl could just make out her reflection.
A smooth round face with two dark eyes, framed by simple brown hair tied in a ponytail. Delicate lips turned down in a slight frown as she gazed at herself. She turned away.
The space was cluttered, an organized chaos, and she had to weave through stacks of books, papers, files, and folders on her way out, each organized into separate groups. The edge of her white dress tapped against a pile of papers, knocking it over. She bent to pick them up and found herself gazing at the faces of three people. A boy and girl stood on either side of an older man in a brown top hat, all three smiling happily up at the camera. Every paper in the pile held pictures like these, some old and faded, some new, but each with the same three people in it. The girl sighed, put the papers back where they belonged, and stood up. She couldn't be late.
Reaching the door, she put out her hand to turn the knob, taking a deep breath. After ten years of seclusion, could she really step outside and play this part? Yes. She needed to. It was the only way, but still her hand trembled as she twisted the brass knob. The door creaked open and the sunlight streamed in. Stepping outside she took a breath of fresh air, gazing at the city that spread before her, at the many buildings, roads, and people; at her London, the beautiful city that she held so dear, and for which she would fulfill her task that required her to step outside into the cold, harsh world. Still lost in thought, she tied the bright orange scarf she carried over her head, and hurried down the stairs and along the cobblestone street towards the clock shop.
Aaghh I HATE writing beginnings of stories! So hard to get it started... Please bear with me!
And of course, thanks for reading!