The bus lurched violently, nearly knocking the woman in the threadbare blue coat off her feet. She grabbed the handrail just in time, stopping herself from collapsing onto the lap of the woman beside her. Flushed with embarrassment, she glanced up—and froze.
“Val?” she whispered, staring into a face she knew all too well.
The woman she’d almost fallen onto met her gaze for a fleeting second—then looked away. Pretended not to recognize her.
But her fingers trembled around the handle of her old leather bag, and the blood drained from her cheeks as if she’d seen a ghost. Her eyelids flickered.
Lydia Simpson—the one in the blue coat—couldn’t believe it.
This was Val, all right. Valerie Carter, the woman she’d spent nearly a decade trading beside in the Blackpool market stalls during the hard years of the nineties.
Time had changed her. Those thick, dark waves were gone, replaced by a tight knot of silver. Her face was older, her eyes dimmed. But the dimples were still there, along with that tiny scar above her eyebrow.
“Val, don’t pretend! It’s me, Lydia!” she pressed, voice rising. “We stood side by side at the market, remember? That winter in ’98 when—”
“You’ve mistaken me for someone else,” Valerie cut in, ice in her tone. She wouldn’t look at her.
“Mistaken? We were like sisters!” Lydia’s voice cracked.
“I don’t know you. Leave me alone,” Valerie snapped, but her words wavered.
The bus fell silent. An elderly woman with a shopping trolley turned, watching.
Lydia hesitated, then noticed the man beside Valerie—greasy-haired, wearing a scuffed leather jacket, his expression dark. And then she saw it: the faint bruise under Valerie’s foundation, carefully concealed.
Lydia’s stomach plummeted.
“Oh, I—I’m sorry, love,” she muttered, stepping back. “Must be the age, playing tricks.”
A few stops later, Valerie and the man got off. Lydia watched through the window as he jerked her aside, hissing something sharp while Valerie stood motionless, head bowed like a scolded child.
At home, Lydia sat by the window for hours, remembering.
The early days of trading, hauling bags from the car boot sales, fending off pickpockets—Valerie charging in with a walking stick, taking a blow meant for her. That’s how she got the scar.
She pulled out an old photo album. A Polaroid of them behind their stall. Scrawled on the back: *”Lyd & Val, ’98. We’ll be alright.”*
“How could you forget me, Val?” she whispered. “We were family.”
A week later, she saw her again.
Valerie sat at the back of the bus, the same man beside her. Lydia studied him—then went cold.
It was Victor Shaw. One of the thugs who’d terrorized the market back then. The one who’d once lunged at Lydia with a knife, snarling for her purse—before Valerie swung that stick and sent him running.
And now he was next to her, Valerie. Quiet. Broken.
“Not now,” Lydia breathed. “She’ll deny me again.”
Next time, she boarded just after them. While Victor fumbled with his fare, she slipped a folded note into Valerie’s palm.
Valerie flinched. Their eyes locked—then, almost imperceptibly, she pressed her lips together twice.
Their old signal. *Danger nearby.*
Lydia nodded and walked on.
One thought burned in her chest: *That’s my Val. And I’ll get her back.*
A year passed. No call. But Lydia knew—she’d ring. And she did.
“Lyd, you beauty,” Valerie’s voice crackled through the phone. “Tomorrow at three. The usual place.”
Lydia arrived at the café early, nerves keeping her awake all night. Her coffee cup clattered as she lifted it.
Then the door opened—and there she was. Not the tired, hollowed-out Val. But the real one.
Jeans. White blouse. Short hair. Laughing eyes. Dimples.
“VAL!” Lydia leaped up.
“LYD!” Valerie shouted back.
They clung to each other for a long moment, no words needed.
“Bloody hell, you’re a miracle,” Lydia exhaled as they sat. “A year ago, you were—”
“A year ago, I was dead,” Valerie murmured, gripping Lydia’s hand. “But you—you pulled me out. That note.”
“Me? I just—”
“Exactly. No grand speech. No names. No risk. Just *‘I’m here.’* And I remembered who I used to be.”
Her husband, Brian, wasn’t just cruel—he’d erased her. After losing their baby, she drowned in guilt. Punished herself. Let him break her.
“I thought I deserved it. That suffering was my penance. Years of it. Then your note. One scrap of paper, and I woke up.”
She divorced him. Left. Started over.
“Moved to Brighton. Made a life. No one’s looking. And you—”
“And I’ll follow you anywhere, Val,” Lydia grinned. “Just like the old days—grab a bag and go!”
They laughed until their sides ached.
Now Valerie lives by the sea. Works, smiles, breathes free.
And Lydia visits often. They walk the piers, talk for hours, cry laughing.
Both of them know—
some reunions bring you back to yourself.
And sometimes, a crumpled note on a crowded bus is all it takes to change a life.
