The jolt of the bus nearly toppled the woman in the threadbare blue coat—she barely caught the handrail in time before collapsing onto the lap of the woman beside her. Flushed with embarrassment, she looked up—and froze.
“Val?” she whispered, staring at the familiar face.
The woman she’d almost fallen upon met her gaze for a fleeting moment… then turned away. Pretended not to know her.
But her hand trembled as it clutched the handle of her worn leather bag, her face paling as if drained of blood. Her eyelids flickered.
Lydia Simmons (for that was the name of the woman in the blue coat) gaped, unwilling to believe her eyes.
It was her Val—Valerie Whitmore, the woman she’d once shared a stall with for nearly a decade at the Sunday market in Manchester, back in the rough-and-tumble days of the nineties.
She looked different, of course. Gone were the glossy dark locks, replaced by silver strands twisted into a tight bun. Her face had aged, the spark in her eyes dimmed… but the dimples in her cheeks remained, along with that faint scar above her brow.
“Val, don’t pretend! It’s me, Lydia!” she burst out. “We stood side by side at the Oldham Road market! Remember ‘98, when—”
“Sorry, you’ve mistaken me for someone else,” Valerie cut in, her voice unexpectedly cold, her gaze averted.
“Mistaken you? For heaven’s sake, we were like sisters!” Lydia exclaimed, louder than she meant to.
“I don’t know you. Leave me alone,” Valerie snapped, her voice cracking.
The bus fell silent. An elderly woman with a shopping trolley turned to gawk.
Lydia faltered. Her eyes darted to the man beside Valerie—a sullen figure with greasy hair and a shabby leather jacket. Then she noticed it—the faint bruise on Valerie’s cheekbone, carefully concealed beneath foundation.
Lydia’s heart clenched.
“Oh—right, sorry,” she mumbled. “Age plays tricks on the eyes.”
A few stops later, Valerie and her companion stepped off. Lydia watched as the man wheeled on her the moment they hit the pavement, his words sharp, while Valerie stood with her head bowed like a chastened child.
At home, Lydia sat by the window for hours, lost in memory.
She and Val had started out together, hauling bags from the rag market, watching each other’s backs when thugs prowled. She remembered Valerie charging at two louts with nothing but a broken umbrella, saving Lydia from a mugging—that was how she’d gotten the scar.
She pulled out an old photo album.
A snapshot behind the stall. On the back, scribbled in faded ink: *”Lydia & Val, 1998. It’ll all turn out right!”*
“How could you forget me, Val?” she whispered. “We were family… What’s happened to you?”
A week later, she spotted Valerie again.
She was sitting at the back of the bus, that same man beside her. Lydia studied him—and her blood ran cold.
Victor Shale. Vik. One of the market thugs who’d once held a knife to her ribs, demanding her wallet. The very man Valerie had fought off all those years ago.
And now he was next to her. Next to Val—quiet, broken.
“Not now,” Lydia murmured to herself. “She’ll deny me again. I’ll have to try another way.”
The next time, she slipped into the bus behind them. While Viktor fumbled for change, she pressed a folded scrap of paper into Valerie’s palm.
Valerie startled. Met her eyes—and gave the faintest, quick press of her lips.
Their old signal. *Danger nearby.*
Lydia nodded and moved on, her heart pounding with a single thought: *That’s my Val. And I’ll save her, like she once saved me.*
Nearly a year passed. The phone never rang. But Lydia knew—she’d call. And she was right.
“Lyd, you beauty!” came the voice down the line. “Tomorrow, three o’clock. You know the place.”
Lydia arrived at the café half an hour early, jittery from lack of sleep. She ordered coffee, her hands unsteady.
And then—in she walked. Val.
Not the hollow, haunted woman from the bus. No. The real one.
Jeans. A crisp white shirt. A fresh haircut. Laughing eyes. Dimples.
“VAL!” Lydia leapt up.
“LYD!” Valerie called back.
They clung to each other, silent, for a long moment.
“Bloody hell, you’re a miracle,” Lydia breathed when they sat. “A year ago, you were—”
“A year ago, I was dead. But you—” Valerie gripped her hand—”you pulled me back. That little scrap of paper.”
“Me? I didn’t even—”
“That’s just it. No grand speeches. No names. No risk. Just enough to tell me you remembered. That you were still there. And I… I remembered who I used to be. And what I’d let happen.” She exhaled. “I looked in the mirror one morning and thought—enough.”
Turned out her husband, Brian, was worse than just a brute. He’d dismantled her, piece by piece. After losing their baby, she’d drowned in grief—and he’d convinced her she deserved to suffer.
“I thought pain was penance. So I let it consume me. Years of it. Then your note. One stupid little scrap, and suddenly I was awake again.”
She left him. Moved away. Started over.
“Bristol. New name. New life. And no one’s looking.” She smirked. “But you—”
“—am right here. Just say the word, and I’ll pack a bag and come running. Like the old days!”
They both laughed.
Now Valerie lives in Bristol. She works, smiles, breathes freely.
And Lydia visits often. They stroll along the harbourside, talking and laughing just like before—until their sides ache.
Both know this, deep down:
Some meetings bring you back to yourself. And sometimes, a crumpled note on a crowded bus is the one small mercy fate decides to give.
