The jolt of the bus nearly sent the woman in the faded blue coat tumbling forward—she barely caught the handrail before collapsing onto the lap of the passenger beside her. Flushed with embarrassment, she looked up—and froze.
“Val?” she whispered, staring into the familiar face.
The woman she’d almost fallen into met her gaze for just a second… then turned away, pretending not to recognise her. But her fingers trembled around the handle of her worn bag, and her face paled as if drained of blood. Her eyelids fluttered.
Lydia Simmons—the one in the blue coat—couldn’t believe her eyes.
It *was* Val. Valerie Carter. The same woman she’d stood shoulder to shoulder with at the flea market in Manchester years ago, back in the rough days of the nineties.
She’d changed, of course. Gone were the dark, glossy curls, replaced by silver strands pulled into a tight knot. Her face had aged; the spark in her eyes dimmed. But the dimples in her cheeks remained, as did the faint scar above her brow.
“Val, don’t pretend! It’s me, Lyds!” Lydia blurted. “We worked the stalls together on Ashton Lane! Remember ’98 when—”
“You’ve mistaken me for someone else,” Valerie cut in coldly, still refusing to look at her.
“Mistaken? We were like sisters!” Lydia’s voice rose, drawing glances from other passengers.
“I don’t know you. Leave me alone,” Valerie snapped, her voice shaking.
An elderly woman with a shopping trolley swivelled to stare.
Lydia faltered. Her gaze flicked to the man beside Valerie—greasy-haired, sullen, in a scuffed leather jacket. Then she noticed it: the carefully concealed bruise on Valerie’s cheek, hidden under a layer of foundation.
Her heart clenched.
“Oh—oh, right, sorry,” she murmured. “Must’ve got confused. Getting old, you know…”
A few stops later, Valerie and the man got off. Through the window, Lydia watched as he grabbed her arm, hissing something sharp while Valerie stood with her head bowed like a scolded child.
At home, Lydia sat by the window, remembering.
How they’d started selling second-hand goods together, hauling bags from the car boot sales, fending off thugs. How Valerie had once swung a metal rod at two attackers to save Lydia from being robbed—earning that scar above her brow.
She pulled out an old photo album.
A picture of them behind their stall. On the back, handwriting: *Lyds & Val. 1998. Things will get better.*
“How did this happen, Val?” she whispered. “We were family. What’s he done to you?”
A week later, she spotted Valerie again.
She sat at the back of the bus, the same man beside her. Lydia studied him—and went cold.
*Vic Hudson.* One of the lowlifes from the old days. He’d been part of the gang that once came at her with a blade, snarling, *”Hand over your purse.”* And Valerie had been the one to fight them off.
Now here he was, sitting next to her. Next to the Val who now looked hollow, broken.
“Not now,” Lydia muttered. “She’ll just deny it again. Gotta do this differently.”
Next time, she boarded right behind them. While Vic fumbled for change, she pressed a folded note into Valerie’s palm.
Valerie stiffened. Met her eyes—then gave the faintest, quickest pinch of her lips.
*Their old signal. Danger.*
Lydia nodded and moved on, heart pounding.
*She’s still in there. My Val. And I’ll get her back, like she once saved me.*
Nearly a year passed with no call. But Lydia knew—she’d reach out.
And then, one day:
“Lyds, you beauty!” Valerie’s voice crackled through the phone. “Tomorrow, three o’clock. You know the place.”
Lydia arrived at the café half an hour early, sleepless from nerves. Her hands shook as she sipped her tea.
And then—in she walked. *Val.*
Not the ghost from the bus. This was the real her.
Jeans. White blouse. Short hair. Laughing eyes. Dimples.
“VAL!” Lydia leapt up.
“LYDS!” Valerie cried back.
They clung to each other, silent, shaking.
“Christ, you’re a miracle,” Lydia breathed when they finally sat. “Last year, you were—”
“Dead,” Valerie said plainly. “I let him kill me years ago. But you—” She gripped Lydia’s hand. “You pulled me back. That note…”
“Me? I just scribbled—”
“Exactly. No names. No risk. Just enough to say, *I’m here.*” Valerie’s voice wavered. “I looked in the mirror after that and finally saw what I’d become. And I thought—*enough.*”
Turned out, Terry wasn’t just a brute. He’d dismantled her. After losing the baby, she’d drowned in guilt, sentenced herself to misery.
“I thought I *deserved* the pain. For years. Then your note—one scrap of paper—reminded me who I was. Who I *could* be again.”
She left. Started over.
“London. Clean slate. No one looking. And you—”
“And I’m here, Val. Just say the word, I’ll hop on the next train. Like the old days—grab a bag and go!”
They laughed like they used to.
Now Valerie lives in London. Works. Smiles. *Breathes.*
And Lydia visits often. They walk along the Thames, talking for hours, laughing till they cry.
Both of them know: some reunions bring you back to yourself.
And maybe—just maybe—a crumpled note on a crowded bus is all it takes for fate to give you a second chance.
