The Manchester bombing three years ago is a story I’ll never forget. Some events stick with you more than others. After a night of shooting and filing none stop I went back to my car to recharge my kit. Walking out of the car park two men ran up to me.

With utter fear and panic in their eyes, they asked if I was press. They asked for me to help, they were looking for a little girl. Her mum was in hospital and possibly not going survive. My journalistic head went out the window.

They gave me her name and a description. Showed me a pic and said she hadn’t been seen since the explosion. I told them the situation with hotels taking in kids. Out of ideas I promised if I did see her I’d get word to them. With a lump in my throat I wished them luck.

I later found out the poor girl they were looking for, eight year old Saffi Roussos had sadly died. My thoughts are often with their family. That moment broke me. But nothing in comparison to what her family have gone through.

Three years on that week, that brief moment with those two men looking for Saffi is as fresh in my mind as the day it happened. Thoughts are with all those who lost friends and family that night.