**Diary Entry**
I still remember the day she missed the train. She came home unannounced, unable to hold back her tears.
Running late, Evelyn decided to return without calling. The moment she stepped through the door, the dam broke. A cold October wind threw sharp raindrops against her face. She watched the departing train, and regret washed over her like a tide. Late. For the first time in fifteen years of routine journeys homelate. *Like a bad dream*, she thought, absently tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear. The platform was empty and eerie, the yellow lamplight reflecting in puddles, casting strange paths of light.
*”Next train isnt till tomorrow morning,”* the clerk said flatly, barely glancing at her. *”Theres a coach, if youd like?”*
Evelyn winced. *Three hours bouncing down country lanes? No, thanks.*
Her phone buzzedMum calling. She stared at the screen but didnt answer. No need to worry them. Better to just go home. Her keys were always in her bag. The cab sped through quiet streets, the city outside the window like a setunreal, lifeless. The driver muttered about the weather, but Evelyn wasnt listening. Inside, a peculiar feeling grewnot quite dread, not quite excitement.
The old house greeted her with darkened windows. Upstairs, familiar childhood smells wrapped around her: Sunday roast from the flat below, laundry powder, the faint scent of worn wood. But tonight, the usual harmony felt off, a jarring note in the symphony.
The key stuck in the lock as if the door resisted. The hall was darkher parents mustve been asleep. Tiptoeing to her room, she flicked on the bedside lamp. Everything as it always was: shelves of books, her old desk, the threadbare teddy on the beda relic Mum couldnt bear to toss. Yet something *was* different. Something intangible had shifted.
Maybe it was the silence. Not the usual night-time hush, but something thick, stickylike the air before a storm. The house seemed to hold its breath, waiting. She reached for her laptopwork never sleptbut as she fumbled for the socket, her hand brushed a small box. It tumbled from the shelf, spilling its contents.
Letters. Dozens of yellowed envelopes with faded postmarks. And a photographold, corners bent. A young Mum, barely more than a girl, laughing against a strangers shoulder. The first tear fell before Evelyn even realised she was crying.
She opened the first letter. The handwriting was bold, unfamiliar.
*”Dearest Margaret, I know I shouldnt write, but I cant stay silent. Every day I think of you, of our Forgive me, even writing it frightens meour daughter. How is she? Does she look like you? Will you ever forgive me for leaving?”*
Her heart pounded. She grabbed another, then another. Dates1988, 1990, 1993. Her entire childhood, her life, spelled out in a strangers hand.
*”…saw her from afar outside school. So serious, her satchel bigger than her. I didnt dare approach…”*
*”…fifteen years old. I imagine the beauty shes become. Margaret, perhaps its time…?”*
A lump formed in her throat. The lamplight sharpened the photograph. She studied the strangers facehigh forehead, clever eyes, a wry smile. *God, she had his nose.* That slight tilt of the head
*”Evelyn?”* Mums voice made her jump. *”Why didnt you”*
Margaret froze in the doorway, seeing the letters scattered on the floor. The colour drained from her face.
*”Mum, what is this?”* Evelyn held up the photo. *”Dont say he was just a friend. I can seeI can feel”*
Mum sank onto the bed. In the lamplight, her hands trembled.
*”William William Harold Thorne,”* she said, voice hushed, as if from another room. *”I thought this story was buried…”*
*”Story?”* Evelyn nearly shouted. *”This is my life! Why did you hide it? Why did he”*
*”Because it had to be!”* Pain cracked Mums voice. *”You dont understandit was different then. His family, mine They wouldnt allow it.”*
Silence settled like a weight. Somewhere in the distance, a train soundedthe same one shed missed. Coincidence? Or fate deciding it was time for the truth?
They talked until dawn. Outside, the sky lightened; inside, the air was thick with cold tea and unspoken words.
*”He was an English teacher,”* Margaret murmured. *”Assigned to our school. Young, handsome, recited poetry from memory Half the girls were in love.”*
Evelyn barely recognised her. Where was the ever-practical woman she knew? Before her sat someone elseyoung, burning with love.
*”And then”* Mum tensed. *”I realised I was pregnant. You cant imagine the uproar. His parents called me some country girl ruining their son. Mine spoke of shame…”*
*”So you just gave up?”* Bitterness seeped into Evelyns voice.
*”He was transferred. No discussion. A month later, I met your”* She paused. *”stepfather. A good man. Dependable.”*
*Dependable*, the word echoed. *Like an old armchair. Like this house.*
*”But the letters Why keep them?”*
*”Because I couldnt burn them!”* For the first time, raw pain broke through. *”They were all I had left. He wrote every month, then less But he wrote.”*
Evelyn picked up the last letter. Three years old.
*”Dearest Margaret, Ive moved to Oakwella cottage on Linden Lane. Perhaps one day Always yours, W.”*
*”Oakwell,”* she whispered. *”Thats barely three hours from here.”*
Mum paled. *”Dont even think”*
*”You call this the past?”* Evelyn stood. *”This is my present. And I have a right to know.”*
Dawn broke. A new day demanded new choices.
*”Im going,”* she said firmly. *”Today.”*
For the first time that endless night, she knew she was doing the right thing.
Oakwell greeted her with drizzle and biting wind. A village frozen in time: cobbled lanes, sleepy cottages, the quiet of a Brontë novel. Linden Lane was on the outskirts. She walked slowly, checking house numbers, her heart hammering.
Number 17. Neat, whitewashed, yellow asters by the gate. The latch wasnt locked.
*What do I even say? Hello, Im your daughter?*
But the choice was taken from her.
A tall, silver-haired man stepped onto the porch, a book in hand. He looked upand the book fell.
*”Margaret?”* he breathed.
*”No not Margaret.”*
*”Im Evelyn,”* her voice shook. *”Evelyn Margaret Hayes though Im not sure about the surname now.”*
William Thorne went white, gripping the railing.
*”Good Lord”* was all he managed. *”Come in. Please.”*
The cottage smelled of books and fresh coffee. Shelves lined every wall. Above the fireplacea print of Waterhouses *The Lady of Shalott*, her favourite since childhood.
*”I always knew this day would come,”* he said, fiddling with the cups. *”But I imagined it a thousand ways…”*
*”Why didnt you fight for us?”* The question tore free.
He stilled. *”Because I was weak,”* he said simply. *”Because I believed it was better. The greatest mistake of my life.”*
The raw pain in his voice tightened her chest.
*”You know,”* he said, eyes distant, *”every birthday, I bought you a gift. Theyre all here.”*
He opened the next room. Evelyn gasped. Neat stacks of books filled the shelves, each tied with ribbon.
*”First edition *Alice in Wonderland*for your fifth,”* he said softly, lifting the top one. *”*The Little Prince* with original illustrationsseven. I chose what Id have read to you.”*
She traced the spines. Thirty years of unwritten conversations.
*”And this”* He pulled out a worn volume. *”Your first published story. *Letters to Nowhere*. I knew your styleyou write like I do.”*
*”You followed my work?”* She didnt know whether to be furious or weep.
*”Not followed. Just lived parallel. Like a shadow. A reflection in a crooked mirror.”*
They talked till duskof books,
