The pink ribbons on the front gates and signposts of Hart Street in Southport are faded now.

Warning: This article contains content some readers might find distressing.

Placed there in that wave of grief and shock, they are now one of the last visual reminders of what happened on 29 July.

One of the others: many of the doorbell cameras are still missing from their backplates. Cameras that recorded the horror on their doorsteps were taken away to provide the evidence.

The attack that took the lives of Alice Aguiar, Elsie Dot Stancombe and Bebe King and injured others, has left an indelible mark on an unremarkable street in a genteel seaside resort.

Axel Rudakubana, 18, from Lancashire, was jailed for life with a minimum of 52 years on Thursday at Liverpool Crown Court for the three murders.

He also admitted 10 counts of attempted murder and possession of a kitchen knife on Monday, and further pleaded guilty to charges of producing ricin and possessing an al Qaeda training manual allegedly found in searches of his home in Banks.

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The vivid colours of the summer have given way to the harsh cold of winter on Hart Street. But if the physical reminders of that day are disappearing, the emotional scars are borne by everyone you talk to.

“I’m still in shock,” said Briony. “I don’t think I’ve completely processed it yet. I know a lot of people are definitely still in shock as well because it was in front of them that it happened.”

She was on the phone to her mum when she heard the first screams. Her front window, she said, felt like a giant TV screen, only the images playing out were of real-life horror.

“I remember the parents turning up. They were abandoning the cars and running down the road screaming,” she said. “I’ll never forget that sound, just absolutely horrendous.”

Hart Street is one of many in Southport that features the idiosyncrasy of small industrial units tucked behind the rows of neat Edwardian houses and accessed by driveways between.

It was in one of the units that the attack took place, its victims spilling into the street as it unfolded.

Steve, who was rebuilding a wall in his front garden, ushered many of them, some badly injured, into his house and the care of his wife. He grabbed a hammer and went to confront the attacker as police arrived.

A survivor of the Hillsborough disaster, he plays down his role on 29 July. Desperate parents came to the house looking for their children, the horror for some was that their child wasn’t there.

“What is there to say? I just think of the families,” he said.

The heroism of the people of Hart Street gave way to a community response that sustained each other through those first few days and in the months since.

Initially, inside the bubble of the police cordon, they were insulated from the global spotlight that turned on their street.

Today there are people who, politely, refuse to talk about what happened. They have relived it enough. You can read in their eyes the trauma they carry.

But there are others who, if they would rather not talk publicly, do want to talk about it. Maybe it is easier to a stranger. Perhaps it is some catharsis for an experience, they all agree, that has changed everyone.

The pain on Hart Street is palpable.

People recall explaining to their own children why the faces of girls they knew were suddenly on the television, how seeing a certain shade of green brings back memories of the attacker’s distinctive hoodie, how anxiety now accompanies even the most routine of daily chores.

Some wonder whether they could have done something to stop the attack.

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When you walk up garden paths that police swept for DNA evidence, when you use pavements and alleyways that were the scene of the most unimaginable horror – when does anything ever return to normal?

One house became an impromptu post office for the cards of condolence that arrived from around the world. Many were simply addressed “Alice, Bebe and Elsie, c/o Hart Street”.

Briony, who trained as a florist, was one of the residents who took it upon themselves to look after the mountain of flowers that also arrived at Hart Street, to keep them as fresh for as long as possible in the summer heatwave.

“I went out there with my headphones on so I could concentrate on it. It felt like it was important to show everybody how loved those three girls were and how the community cares so much about what’s happened.”

Some of the tributes live on, replanted in flower beds on Hart Street, Briony is drying some to turn into a work of art.

The pain of the memories of the events of 29 July is matched only by the anger many feel at the scenes of unrest that followed.

“Disgusting. I thought it was disgusting,” said Briony. “It was just a sign of pure hatred and nothing else.”

Shifting the focus away from the families of the victims, for many, is unforgivable. Even in recent weeks, friends and relatives of the children caught up in the attack have continued to return to Hart Street.

They come to thank those who helped save lives that day. They talk. Sometimes they just hug.

“I can’t imagine what they’re going through. I just hope they can find some sort of peace at some point,” said Briony.

For the parents of Alice, the grieving process includes a monthly mass for her at their local Catholic church.

Father John Henegan gave Alice her first Holy Communion last summer.

“She was just radiant, just this constant beaming smile, it was absolutely natural,” he said.

Weeks later, Father John was holding Alice’s funeral. How does he believe any family can reckon with the violence that took her life?

“Our response is goodness. Our response is hope,” he said, adding: “Love instead of hate. Hatred creates chaos and distress. Love is the way. Hope is the opposite to despair. We can change things. We can help to build a better world.”

On Hart Street, those pink ribbons continue to fade, but the memories of Alice, Bebe and Elsie never will.

Anyone feeling emotionally distressed or suicidal can call Samaritans for help on 116 123 or email jo@samaritans.org in the UK. In the US, call the Samaritans branch in your area or 1 (800) 273-TALK.