Delphine hums a chirruppy little tune, pausing in her folding of a letter into an envelope to conduct an extemporaneous head-bobbing dance that ends with a little spin at the completion of the chorus. Well, it might have been a spin if she hadn't turned right into the bed. No one was going to hire her for St George's Hall, or whatever the London equivalent was, that was certain. It was an amusing thought to even consider, painting a smile across her face.

The last suitcase (or second, if you were counting) was more difficult to shut, given that the letters and newspapers she'd accumulated since being in the city were layered carefully across the personal effects that had already strained the hinges of the case coming down the spiral. She hops onto the case, using her weight to hold them shut so that she can flip the latches. "Huh, that actually worked."

She's finished. This hotel room would officially be her past. Delphine scoops up the letter from Mrs Swift and tucks it into her coat pocket before thrusting her arms through the sleeve of the coat in a twirling maneuver. She knows she's being theatrical; she just can't help it - she's moving out of this hotel room forever.

In minutes, she would have a new home and everything would get better. Her humming becomes the rhythm of her task list-like destiny - she'd replenish her savings, begin to make the payments to her sponsor, and maybe even be able to eat at the Sea and Sun once a week.

And then --to find a place where she can develop some film. She's only a short time away from her passion, a giddy thought.

Delphine slings the strap of the camera box over her shoulder and across her body. Each hand takes a suitcase and she's out the door never to return.