The street was dark. The darkness therein was not one wistful, poetic—it was ugly, and thick as a lumpy quilt. There was no one there, and not even the slightest suggestion that light had ever or would ever pervade the utter darkness.
Did I say there was no one there? Well, no one of real interest. A girl sat propped up against a doorjamb, her arms wrapped tightly around herself, shaking almost imperceptibly. Her clothes were not rags—thin, ill-fitting, stained irreparably, but not yet rags. And she was saying something to herself, over, over, and over again.
“Never…pretty…doesn’t matter,” she croaked, rocking back and forth, her eyes shut tight. As if those four words were the only thing keeping her alive, keeping her breathing. “Never pretty,” she hissed, sniffled, coughed once, twice. “Doesn’t—doesn’t matter.” The silence crept in slowly after that, and the girl seemed to fall asleep at last, her head resting on her pulled-up knees.
The next morning, when a washed-out woman stumbled out into the still-dark street and looked around confusedly, the little girl was gone. The woman leaned down, frowning at a stain on the concrete, scuffing it with the toe of her ragged slippers. “Blood,” she muttered, with a look of vague distaste on her plain pasteboard face. “Coulda found somewhere else to bleed, couldn’t they?” Then she turned and disappeared back inside, slamming the door behind her.
Three streets along, the girl tottered down a gum-stuck stretch of pavement, her eyes trained dutifully on the ground beneath her shuffling bare feet. She was still shivering, and stopped every little while to lean against the graffiti-splattered wall. Once, very slowly, she turned her head to catch a glimpse of herself in a shop-window, and cried out, covered her face with her hands—but kept walking. Lurching, more like, down that long stretch of pavement, with the sun beginning to creep up over the hills.
At last, with a pathetic shudder, she fell to the concrete, and lay still, not even seeming to breathe. And the darkness closed in around her, a cloud of it, darkness not even the brightest sunlight could penetrate.
Doors and windows began to open, people to bustle out into the street, with errands to run and things to do. But it was a long time before anyone noticed the little girl in the shadows, with her shivering breaths and her darkness. Almost – and here are the important words – but not quite too long. Not quite.
***
Dr. Erinston was confused. And when Dr. Erinston was confused, everyone was confused. “I don’t understand,” he kept saying under his breath, as he stared down at the ragged figure in the hospital bed. “I-I don’t understand.” A nurse came up behind him, touched him lightly on the shoulder.
“Neither do I, sir,” she said, as if hoping to comfort him with her equal misunderstanding.
“I have a daughter this age,” Dr. Erinston stuttered. “Who would…and how did she…what, Nurse Abrams?” The nurse had been tapping him on the shoulder as he spoke, and she jumped backwards at his sharp question.
“These things do happen, sir,” she said quietly, tucking a wisp of blonde hair behind one ear. It was a habit the doctor particularly disliked, and he snorted—if he hadn’t been a renowned and honored practitioner of the medicinal arts, he very well might have rolled his eyes.
“Happen! Yes, when, precisely, nurse? Not to anyone who comes through these doors. She’s just a child! Who would—would do something like that to a child?”
“Who would do something like that to an adult?” countered the nurse, still keeping her distance. Dr. Erinston could be very…temperamental, no matter his awards and abilities. She was angry at him for being angry and angry at herself for being angry with him, and that didn’t improve her mood at all.
“Yes, yes, but that’s beside the point. It’s different with grown-ups, you know. But to someone so small…gods, I may have walked past this little pauper girl on the street, two, three days ago on my way to work. We don’t notice, we jaded city-dwellers, that’s the problem, Abrams.” He nodded his head decidedly, scornful of himself and everyone else who lived in the city. “But we cannot keep her here long, in fact, I wasn’t technically supposed to admit her in the first place. Do you have anyone who’s been looking for some sort of serving girl, or maid? Come, come, Abrams, no need for the dumb-rabbit act. It’s really a yes-or-no question.”
The nurse held back a desperate scream of frustration, or it looked as if she were, for her face had gotten very red, and she seemed unable to speak for a moment. At last, after several more sharp remarks from the doctor, she took a deep, calming breath. When she did say something, her voice was strained, tight, and it seemed there were other things she would much prefer to say to Dr. Erinston. “My—my brother, the rich one? Yes, he’s just fired a maid. Silly thing was pregnant, you know how it is. He’s always been a bit heartless, but I suppose I could ask him—”
“Very good,” the doctor interrupted, rubbing his latex-gloved hands together. “So kind of you and all that. I’d suggest you leave out the bit about the, ahm, face. Break it to him gently, yes? Excellent. And now, I really must go. Some patient’s seizing in 429B.” He swept out of the room, leaving behind the smell of antiseptic and faintly, expensive cologne.
“Lord strike him blind,” muttered the nurse, though affectionately, so it didn’t really count. Then she turned, and sighed, as two wide brown eyes looked out from the pale, ravaged face of the little pauper girl. “Now then, sweetie, what about some brekkist?”
***
Thanks so much for reading! I actually like this more than my usual stuff, dunno why yet. Don't worry, the romance'll show up soon enough. Just keep your pretty eyes peeled, people.
If you achieve that, we'll be able to understand the characters better if they feel like real people. Also, this is true in the second part of your sentence as well; it makes us feel like the narrator has forgotten something and thus adding a level of sloppiness to the story. Maybe you could mention it was 'partially empty'? Omniscience is called such for a reason; the narrator exists simply to tell the story and shouldn't be characterized in any way. 
