Somewhere under the mangled mass of terracotta bricks, jagged concrete blocks, upended sofas, scattered shoes and tiny pink socks that was once Lilas’s home lies her bicycle... Somewhere.
The solemn-eyed eight-year-old, clutching a red rose which has inexplicably drifted into this scene of carnage, explains it is riding her bike here that she misses the most.
“I had a friend next door and we played here on our bicycles,” she says.
