**Diary Entry: An Autumn Encounter**
The wind tossed fallen autumn leaves from one place to another, swirling them through the air before they drifted gently to the ground. Oliver walked home from his parents’ house—he’d left his car in their driveway after sharing a drink with his father, who had just returned from a health retreat and was cheerfully recounting how wonderful the treatment had been.
“Next time, love, you should come with me. It was a bit dull on my own,” his father said.
“Come on, Dad, there must’ve been plenty of single women there—you could’ve had some fun,” Oliver joked, winking and glancing at his mother for her reaction.
“Oh, there were women, but they were either ill or older than me. Besides, why would I ever trade your mother for anyone?” his father replied with a warm smile.
Oliver had stayed too long at his parents’. He’d gone alone, as always—Emily never wanted to join. His parents lived just a short walk from the flat he rented. They had never warmed to her, though they hid it well. Still, his mother had once quietly told him, “Oliver, she’s not the one for you. Emily isn’t marriage material—trust me, I’ve got a good eye for these things.”
“Mum, how can you say that? You’ve only met her once!”
“Fine, live your life. Just remember my words later. The only comfort I have is that you’re not rushing to the registry office. Don’t worry, Emily won’t sense anything.”
That morning, before leaving for the office, Oliver had told Emily he’d be visiting his parents afterward—his father had just come back. “Let’s meet up later, Em. It’s your day off—why don’t you join me at theirs for a bit?”
“Can’t, Ol. I promised Sarah I’d visit—she’s off sick, remember? And I’ve got a nail appointment booked ages ago,” Emily replied.
Oliver already knew she wouldn’t come, but he’d asked anyway. “Alright, I’ll be late then. Dad will probably pour me a drink—he’s celebrating his return.”
“Take your time. I’ll be at Sarah’s for a while,” she said.
“Call me when you’re heading home—I’ll meet you. Don’t walk alone in the dark.”
Evening had settled over the city, the sparse streetlights powerless against the deepening gloom. Though it wasn’t particularly late, autumn nights were pitch black. Oliver didn’t call Emily—she was likely already home. He walked in good spirits, having enjoyed a drink with his father and a laugh with his mother.
When he opened the flat door, playful laughter spilled from the bedroom. Peering in, he saw his best friend hastily dressing while Emily murmured, “Hurry up, James—Oliver could be back any minute.” Then she spotted him in the doorway and fell silent.
His legs carried him out of the flat before he could process it. “Emily… with my best friend. I never imagined this, not even in my worst nightmares.”
Dazed, he wandered aimlessly, the will to live slipping away. He found himself on a bridge, cars speeding past, headlights blinding him. He turned, gazing down at the dark water below.
Suddenly, a hand touched his sleeve. An elderly man with glasses and a neatly trimmed beard stood beside him, his voice raspy. “Young man, don’t you think it’s a bit high up here? I don’t usually interfere, but I hope I’m wrong about what you might be thinking.” He nodded toward the river.
Oliver snapped back to reality, horrified. “No, of course not. I wasn’t—I wouldn’t.”
“Good,” the old man said. “Which way are you headed?”
“I don’t know. Just walking.”
“Then walk me home. I live just past the park—if you don’t mind.” Oliver agreed.
“I’m Harold Whitmore, by the way.”
“Oliver.”
As they crossed the short bridge, Harold spoke of his life—how he’d taught economics at the university until retiring three years ago. “It was dull at first, but then my granddaughter, Charlotte, had a baby boy. Now the house is full of life again.”
Oliver listened, soothed by Harold’s steady voice.
“Something’s happened to you,” Harold said, more statement than question. “Where are you going? I shouldn’t have dragged you along if you’ve got your own troubles.”
“Nowhere, right now. I can’t face my parents again, and I won’t go home. Not after…”
“Say no more. Come to mine instead. Charlotte and little Arthur have plenty of space—you’re welcome to stay.”
Oliver hesitated. “It’s late, and the boy must be asleep.”
“Arthur goes down after nine. There’s time yet.”
Somehow, Oliver followed. The flat was quiet as they entered. Harold fetched teacups carefully, the table already set with biscuits.
“Grandad, who’s this?” A small boy of about three padded into the kitchen, eyeing Oliver.
“This is Oliver, Arthur. Our guest.”
“I’m Arthur,” the boy announced solemnly, offering his hand.
Oliver shook it, smiling. “Hello, Arthur. Shouldn’t you be asleep?”
“Nope.”
Charlotte appeared then, her cheeks pink. “Oh! I didn’t know we had company.”
They drank tea, talking late into the night. Arthur refused to leave, bringing Oliver toys until Charlotte finally ushered him to bed.
“You’ve made quite an impression,” Harold chuckled. “He’s not usually so taken with strangers.”
The next morning, Oliver left for work from Harold’s—their four-bedroom flat had space to spare. That evening, he collected his car from his parents’ and returned home. Emily’s things were still there. He braced for a scene.
It came the moment she walked in. “Oliver! Where were you? I was so worried—”
“Were you? Pack your things and go. Honestly, I thought you’d have left by now.”
“Oliver, you’re not even going to listen? James started it—”
“Spare me the details. Just leave.”
Now, he had no best friend, no girlfriend. But as he sat at work, he remembered Arthur’s bright eyes and even Charlotte’s warm smile.
That evening, he bought a toy car in a big box and rang Harold’s doorbell. Charlotte answered, blushing as she let him in. Arthur barrelled into him, dragging him to play. Harold stroked his beard, smiling.
Over a year later, Oliver stood outside the maternity ward, holding his newborn daughter, Lucy, while Charlotte rested in the wheelchair beside him. Harold and Arthur beamed beside them.
That chance meeting on the bridge had changed everything.
