**A Diary Entry**
The weight of grief had driven me deep into the countryside, where I hoped to disappear. But my dog led me back to lifeto a little girl hiding in the woods.
I placed my resignation letter on Dr. Whitmores desk. He removed his glasses, rubbed the bridge of his nose, and looked at me with such deep, almost paternal sorrow that for a moment, I nearly took it back.
“Emily, reconsider,” he said softly. “Perhaps just a leave of absence? Youre valued hereyou know that.”
I shook my head. “I cant, Dr. Whitmore. Not here.”
The gnawing guilt was relentless. As a mother, Id failed to protect my child. As a doctor, I couldnt save him. Every cry in the hospital corridors echoed like a phantom pain, every laugh a silent accusation.
Dr. Whitmore was a kind man, a good leader who always knew the right words. Id noticed how he sometimes looked at me with quiet warmth, yet never overstepped. Now, the sympathy in his eyes only made it worse.
*Cant you see? Im gone. The Emily you knew died with Thomas.*
Inside, there was only a hollow, frozen silence. I wanted to curl up and weep, but instead, I clenched my fists, nails digging into my palms.
“I I should go,” I murmured, fleeing before I broke down in front of himso close, yet so far.
All I knew was I had to escape. Somewhere without familiar faces, pitying glances, or the sound of children that tore open the wound. I sold my flat for pennies, just to be rid of it.
The train crawled past a forgotten station nestled in the woods. The moment I stepped onto the creaky platform, two elderly women on a bench eyed me curiously.
“Who are you visiting, love? Or lost?” one asked, wrapped in a floral scarf.
I forced a sad smile. “I buried my son. I just want to be alone.”
They exchanged glances, understanding flickering in their eyes.
“Terrible grief, dear. Margarets cottage stands emptyshes moved to her sons in town. A good house, solid. But alone too long, and youll lose yourself. Dont shut people out entirely.”
They gave me the address, and I trudged down the dirt road to my new “home,” if it could be called that.
Margaret met me warily, but softened when she heard why Id come. “Stay as long as you need. The rents nothing. Only theres Jasper. Our cat. A bit wild, but a fine mouser. Be kind to him.”
The first night in that musty, herb-scented cottage was endless. Every creak of the floorboards, every rustle outside brought Thomas backhow hed have raced through the rooms, exploring every corner.
Days blurred into monotony. I scrubbed, painted, mendedanything to keep my hands and mind busy. But grief clung like a shadow. Evenings, Id sit on the porch and whisper to Thomas about my day, tears unchecked. Here, in this forgotten place, no one saw.
One night, when sorrow nearly crushed me, a large tabbyJasperappeared silently beside me. He studied me with wise green eyes, then rubbed against my leg. I froze, then stroked his rough fur. His purring shattered me. I clutched him, sobbing into his coat until exhaustion dragged me into sleep right there.
Weeks later, a neighbour brought a scrawny, curious terrier pup. “Take him, Emily, or theyll drown him. Good company, and a guard besides.”
I named him Dukefor his proud, almost haughty air. At first, Jasper hissed and arched, but soon, they slept together by the hearth. Watching them play, I smiled for the first time in ages.
Word spread that a former doctor lived in Margarets cottage, and villagers came with small requestscheck a fever, dress a wound. I refused at first, claiming I no longer practised, but their trusting faces wore me down.
I walked the woods often. Duke bounded ahead, barking at birds, while Jasperunexpectedlyjoined us, leaping over fallen logs. The forest didnt judge. It let me breathe.
*Here, I can cry without hiding. Here, I can just be.*
Slowly, the ice around my heart began to crack.
One evening, unease prickled my skin, pulling me toward the densest part of the woods.
“Not today,” I muttered, but Duke whined at the door, sharing my restlessness.
Grabbing a torch, I followed him. Deeper and deeper, until he barked frantically at the roots of an old oak.
There, on the damp earth, lay a little girlunconscious.
I scooped up her icy, fragile body and ran. Lily was freezing, her pulse faint. Duke and Jasper stayed close, nudging my legs as if helping.
At home, I rubbed her wrists with brandy, swaddled her in blankets, tucked hot water bottles around her. Two hours passed before she stirred, her blue eyes wide with fear.
“Where am I?” she whispered.
“Safe,” I said gently. “Whats your name?”
“Lily My daddys a doctor. Hell save me.”
My heart clenched. “Ill fetch help,” I said, stepping out before she saw my tears.
Constable Harris arrived in his battered Land Rover. “Troubling business,” he grunted. “Girls not from here?”
Lilys motherdivorced, unstablehad brought her to stay with distant relatives. Another drunken row had sent her fleeing.
“Heres the rub, Emily,” Harris sighed. “If I report it, theyll take her from her mum. Her fathers got a long court battle ahead. Poor mite.”
I looked at Lilys thin face, her trembling lashes, and something shifted inside.
“Let her stay with me,” I heard myself say. “Until her father comes.”
Harris raised a brow, then nodded. “Good heart, youve got. Ill contact him.”
The next day, a familiar car pulled up. Dr. Whitmore stepped out, weary but hopeful.
“Lily! Sweetheart!” He rushed to the porch, gathering her into his arms. I stood frozen, stunned by the cruel twist of fate.
That night, over tea, he spoke of his bitter divorce, his ex-wifes spiral, his fight for Lily. His voice wavered, and in his pain, I heard echoes of my own.
Then he looked at me, quiet and intent. “Thank you, Emily. You saved her. Maybe me, too.”
His words, tender and raw, made my lips tremble. That night, he stayedno promises, just silent understanding that here, in this quiet place, we might start anew.
For days, we fell into a rhythm. Lily played with Duke and Jasper, picked berries with me. Dr. Whitmore*James*chopped wood, mended the fence. A fragile peace settled over me.
Then the reckoning came. A screeching car, a dishevelled woman shouting, “Give me my daughter!”
James tried to calm her, but she only grew wilder.
Duke growled; Jaspers fur bristled. She faltered.
I stepped forward. “Lily stays with her father. You should leave.”
My voice brooked no argument. After a tense pause, she drove off. Harris, called by neighbours, merely shrugged.
That evening, James took my hand. “Shall we try again?”
I looked at him, at Lily curled trustingly against me, at this cottage that had become home, at Duke and Jasperand nodded.
“Yes,” I whispered. “Well try.”
**Lesson learnt:** Sometimes, the very thing we run from becomes the path back to living. Grief doesnt vanishbut neither does hope, if we let it in.
