The old woman was lying on the park bench underneath layers of musty old coats, pink v-sweaters (four) and thermal underwear, not only yellowed but stained. It was hard to discern if she was skinny beneath all that or fat as her head was covered with a stripey blue and yellow scarf so only two black eyes were visible when we shook her awake.

She didn't show any emotion or even interest when she viewed the photograph. Her family were waiting in the car, giving her some time and space to take in they had been looking for her all this time and hired us to finally bring her home.

Martha Weston didn't want to get up off the bench when we gently told her it was time to go. Wrestling from my arms, holding onto the cold wooden slats with frostbitten fingers, screaming louder than I ever expected.

"This is my home."