The bus jolted sharply, nearly knocking over a woman in a frayed blue coat—she barely caught the handrail before collapsing onto the lap of the woman beside her. Flushing with embarrassment, she lifted her eyes—and froze.
“Val?” she whispered, studying the familiar face.
The woman she’d almost toppled into met her gaze for a split second… then looked away. Pretended not to know her.
But her hand trembled around the handle of her worn-out handbag, and her face paled as if drained of blood. Her eyelids quivered.
Lydia Simmons—that was the name of the woman in the blue coat—stared, disbelieving.
It *was* Val. Valerie Carter. The same Val she’d spent nearly a decade shoulder-to-shoulder with, selling odds and ends at the flea market in Manchester in the rough ’90s.
Yes, she’d changed. Gone were the luscious dark curls, replaced by grey strands pulled into a tight bun. Her face had aged, the fire in her eyes dimmed… but the dimples in her cheeks and the scar above her eyebrow were unchanged.
“Val, don’t pretend! It’s me, Lyd!” Lydia burst out. “We used to run stalls next to each other at the Arndale! Remember ’98, when—”
“Sorry, you’ve mistaken me for someone else,” Valerie cut in, her voice ice-cold, not even glancing up.
“Mistaken you? We were like sisters!” Lydia protested, louder than she meant to.
“I don’t know you. Leave me alone,” Valerie snapped, her voice catching.
The bus fell silent. An elderly woman with a shopping trolley turned to gawk.
Lydia faltered. Her eyes darted to the man seated beside Valerie—a surly bloke with greasy hair and a scuffed leather jacket. Then she noticed it: beneath a layer of makeup, the faintest trace of a bruise on Valerie’s cheekbone.
Lydia’s heart clenched.
“Oh—right, sorry,” she muttered. “Must’ve got the wrong person. Getting old, you know…”
A few stops later, Valerie and her companion got off. Through the window, Lydia watched the man snap at her, his words sharp. Valerie stood motionless, head bowed like a schoolgirl scolded by a teacher.
At home, Lydia sat by the window for hours, remembering.
How they’d started selling together, hauling bags from the car boot sales, how Valerie had once swung a bat at two thugs who tried to rob her—earning that scar above her brow.
She pulled out an old photo album. A faded snapshot of them behind their stall. On the back: *Lyd & Val. 1998. It’ll all be fine!*
“How could this happen, Val?” she whispered. “We were family… What’s been done to you?”
A week later, she spotted Valerie again.
She sat at the back of the bus, the same man beside her. This time, Lydia studied him—and froze.
Victor Shaw. Vicious Vic. One of the market’s worst troublemakers. A decade ago, he’d lunged at her with a blade, snarling, *”Hand over your purse.”* And Valerie—bright, fearless Val—had charged him with a cricket bat.
Now he sat beside her. A hollow-eyed stranger.
*Not now,* Lydia thought. *She’ll deny me again. I’ll have to try something else.*
Next time, she slipped onto the bus behind them. While Vic fumbled for change, she pressed a folded note into Valerie’s palm.
A flinch. A glance. Then, barely perceptible, Valerie pursed her lips twice—*their old signal.* *Danger near.*
Lydia nodded and moved on, heart pounding. *That’s my Val. And I’ll save her, just like she saved me.*
Months passed. The phone stayed silent. But Lydia knew: she’d call. Eventually.
And she did.
“Lyd, you beauty!” Val’s voice crackled through the receiver. “Tomorrow. Three o’clock. Our old spot.”
Lydia arrived at the café half an hour early. She hadn’t slept. Her hands shook around her tea.
Then—she walked in. Val.
Not the broken ghost from the bus. *Her* Val.
Jeans. White blouse. Short hair. Laughing eyes. Dimples.
“VAL!” Lydia sprang up.
“LYD!” Valerie shouted back.
They clung to each other, silent.
“You’re bloody brilliant,” Lydia breathed when they sat. “A year ago, you were—”
“A year ago, I was dead.” Valerie squeezed her hand. “But you—you pulled me back. That note…”
“Me? I just scribbled—”
“That’s why it worked. No names. No risks. Just enough to make me *remember.*”
Turned out her husband, Gary, wasn’t just a bully. He’d shattered her—after losing their baby, she drowned in guilt, punished herself for years.
“I thought I deserved the pain. Until your note. One scrap of paper, and I woke up.”
She left him. Moved to Brighton. Started over.
“And no one’s looking. But you—”
“I’m here, Val. Just say the word—I’ll hop on a train, just like the old days!”
They laughed until their sides ached.
Now Valerie lives by the sea. Works. Smiles. Breathes.
And Lydia visits often. They stroll the pier, chatter like girls, cry laughing.
Both know this truth:
sometimes, a single crumpled note in a crowded bus is all it takes to bring someone back to life.
