**Diary Entry – 12th October**
The pub owner hired a homeless woman and her son as cleaners. Later, when he checked the CCTV, he saw her dancing…
The sun, a great molten disc, sank behind the rooftops, staining the sky in crimson and gold. The air carried the scent of autumn—damp leaves, chimney smoke, and distant coffee from street stalls. People hurried home, laughing, embracing, living. And there stood Edward, alone as a monument to forgotten times, staring at the wasteland as though it were the grave of his youth.
His hands, tucked into the pockets of his Italian wool coat, were numb despite the thick gloves. He felt no warmth, no passage of time, no city around him. Only the ache in his chest and flickers of memory, like scenes from an old film.
Beyond the rusted wire fence lay the place where music once played, where couples had swayed to the beat, where first loves had bloomed, where he’d kissed a girl under the stars. The dance floor. *His* dance floor. Once, it had smelled of youth and freedom. Now—only weeds, rust, and silence, broken by the whisper of wind.
This place was both sacred and cursed. Here, he’d been happy. Here, he’d dreamed. Here, he’d first believed he could do anything. Now, standing at that fence, he felt as overgrown as the wasteland—choked with disappointment, loneliness.
His thoughts circled back to what had happened just an hour ago. *Charlotte.* His star. His nightmare. His mistake.
The office was all exposed brick and warm lamplight, leather sofas and rare whisky. But the air was ice. Charlotte stood in the centre like a statue carved from marble and poison. Her body—sculpted by years of discipline—her gaze sharp as steel. She looked at him as though he were nothing. Trash to be tossed out.
*”You don’t speak to me like that,”* she hissed, voice like a blade. *”I made your pub what it is. Without me, you’re nothing.”*
Edward faced the window, his back to her. He wouldn’t turn. Wouldn’t look at that mask of arrogance. He knew the truth—yes, she danced well. Brilliantly, even. But talent without soul was just spectacle. She no longer danced for the crowd. She danced for herself. For fame. For admirers she treated as possessions.
*”There was never anything between us, Charlotte,”* he said, voice calm as still water. *”And there never will be. I’m grateful—for the years, for the crowds, for your skill. But you stopped learning. Started demanding, not giving. You think the world revolves around you. This is the end.”*
He laid an envelope on the desk. Thick. Heavy. A year’s wages, maybe more. Not revenge—a parting gesture. Respect for her talent, not her character.
Charlotte didn’t even glance at it.
*”Take it back,”* she spat. *”I’ll walk. And your empire will crumble. People came for* me. *In a month, you’ll be sitting in an empty room like a fool who didn’t realise who made him.”*
Edward finally turned. No anger in his eyes. No regret. Just weariness. And absolute certainty.
*”You’re fired. Two weeks’ pay—by law. The manager will settle it. Good luck.”*
He left without looking back. The car waited outside. He drove—no destination, no plan. Just the road and his thoughts, shrapnel tearing through his mind.
An hour later, he was here. At this fence. At his past. At his pain.
The next morning, his head throbbed like a storm had raged inside. Edward woke with the hollow certainty he’d lost something vital—not his business, not a woman, but *himself*. And in answer to that silent call, he knew: he had to return. To that land where he’d once laughed, danced, loved.
In the boot, he found a crowbar—rusted but sturdy. He drove to the wasteland, pulled aside the fence, slipped through like stepping into the past.
The place greeted him with silence. Wind rustled dry leaves like pages of a forgotten book. The old wooden stage leaned like a tired old man. Doors boarded, windows black voids. One—shattered.
He peered inside. Dust. Cobwebs. Broken chairs, rusted nails, faded posters.
Still, he climbed in. Not because he wanted to. Because something *waited* for him there. An answer. Forgiveness, maybe.
Three steps. The floor—rotten through—cracked. Gave way.
The fall lasted a second. Long enough to think: *”This is it. The end. For what? Pride? Loneliness? Forgetting who I was?”*
He landed on rubble and splintered wood. Pain shot through his side, his hands scraped raw—but he was alive. *Alive.* A miracle.
He was in a cellar. Three metres deep. Smooth concrete walls. No footholds. No ladder. No hope.
His phone—still in the car. He was trapped.
*”Hey!”* he shouted. *”Anyone there? Help!”*
Only echoes answered.
He clawed at cracks, at scraps of rebar. Slipped. Blood dripped from his fingers. Despair clenched his heart.
An hour later, he sank onto a brick. Closed his eyes. Thought how absurd it was—Edward Whitmore, pub tycoon, dying in a hole on an abandoned dance floor.
Then—a voice.
*”Mum, look! A man in a hole!”*
Edward looked up. Above, framed in light, stood two figures. A woman. A boy. Small, with owlish eyes. The woman—thin, pale, but kindness in her gaze. And worry.
*”Are you alright?”* she asked.
*”Just fancied a rest,”* he smiled through the pain. *”But if you wouldn’t mind—help me out?”*
They vanished. Hope flickered out—until, ten minutes later, they returned. Dragging an old, rusted fire escape ladder. Grunting, they wedged it through the gap.
The ladder became a bridge between life and death.
He climbed out. Filthy, bleeding, but breathing. Stood in the sunlight like a shipwreck survivor.
*”Thank you,”* he said—two words holding gratitude, relief, shattered pride.
The woman was *Margaret.* The boy—*Thomas.* Poor but dignified. Clothes worn but clean. Hair neat. Eyes steady.
Then he learned—they lived here. In a ruined caretaker’s hut. Cast out. Abandoned.
Edward froze. A thought struck: *”I need a cleaner. A night watchman. I have a storage room. I can give them a roof. A chance.”*
*”Margaret,”* he said, meeting her weary gaze. *”I own pubs. I need a cleaner. A night watchman. There’s a room—it’s not much, but it’s warm. Dry. Better than a hole.”*
She stared at him like he was an angel. Tears fell—not from pain, but hope.
*”I’ll take it,”* she whispered.
That same day, they arrived at his flagship pub. Edward helped them settle—brought a bed, a rug, a table. Even bought Thomas a toy lorry.
*”James,”* he told his manager, *”they’re under your protection. No one touches them. No one.”*
He left. For the next town. For the *”People’s Talent”* contest. His goal—find a new star. A new Charlotte. Without the poison.
Days passed. Act after act. None had it—no fire, no soul.
He sat on the judging panel like a condemned man. The final round approached. Hope dwindled.
Evening. A hotel room. Coffee gone cold. Spirits lower than ever.
He opened his laptop. Scrolled absently. Then—the CCTV icon.
*”Why not?”* he thought. Clicked.
The screen flickered to life. Empty pub. Three AM. Silence.
The floor—gleaming. Music—soft, ethereal, ancient somehow.
Then—*her.*
In the centre. Half-shadowed. Dancing.
He stopped breathing.
This wasn’t dancing. It was *prayer.* A fight. A release.
Every move—a heartbeat. Fluidity, strength, control. She was water and fire. Wind and stone. Not just dancing—*speaking.* Without words. And he *heard* every one.
He couldn’t look away.
This moment, stolen from a dream, burned into his mind forever. On-screen, in the dim glow, moved the woman he’d thought quiet, invisible. Now—she was *alight.* A song no radio could play. A living masterpiece woven from pain, strength, beauty.
Edward sat, breath held. Heart hammering. He didn’t just *see* the dance—he *felt* it. Every slide, every turn—her *soul*, freed after years locked away. *
