**Diary Entry 12th October**
I missed the train. Standing there on the empty platform, I couldnt hold back the tears. The biting October wind lashed rain against my face as I watched the last carriage disappear into the distance. Latefor the first time in fifteen years of regular trips home. It felt like a bad dream. I tucked a loose strand of hair behind my ear, the yellow platform lights reflecting in puddles, casting strange shadows.
*”Next trains not till tomorrow morning,”* the ticket clerk said indifferently, barely glancing up. *”Could take the coach?”*
The coach? Three hours rattling down country lanes? No, thank you. My phone buzzedMum callingbut I didnt answer. No need to worry her. Better to just go home; I always had my keys.
The taxi sped through quiet streets, the city outside the window looking like a stage setflat, unreal. The driver muttered about the weather and traffic, but I wasnt listening. Inside, I felt something oddnot quite dread, not quite relief.
The old house greeted me with darkened windows. Climbing the stairs, I inhaled familiar childhood smells: baked potatoes from the flat above, washing powder, the faint musk of aged wood. But tonight, something in that comforting symphony felt off.
The key stuck in the lock, as if the door resisted. The hall was dark and silentMum and Dad mustve been asleep. Tiptoeing to my room, I flicked on the desk lamp. Everything was as Id left it: bookshelves, the old study desk, my threadbare teddy beara relic Mum could never bring herself to throw away. Yet something was different.
Was it the silence? Not the usual nighttime hush, but something thick, heavylike the air before a storm. The house seemed to hold its breath, waiting. I reached for my laptop, but as I groped for the socket, my hand brushed a box. It tumbled from the shelf, spilling its contents across the floor.
Letters. Dozens of yellowed envelopes with faded postmarks. And a photographdog-eared, creased. A young womanMum, barely more than a girllaughing, leaning into a strangers shoulder. A tear hit the photo before I even realised I was crying.
My hands shook as I opened the first letter. The handwriting was bold, deliberate, utterly unfamiliar.
*”My dearest Evelyn, I know I shouldnt write, but I cant stay silent any longer. Every day I think of you, of our daughter. How is she? Does she look like you? Will you ever forgive me for leaving?”*
My pulse roared. I grabbed another letter, then another. Dates1988, 1990, 1993 My entire childhood, my whole life, spelled out in these pages.
*”I saw her from afar outside the school. So serious, with a satchel bigger than she was. I couldnt bring myself to approach”*
*”fifteen years old. I imagine shes grown into a beauty. Evelyn, perhaps its time?”*
A lump rose in my throat. I turned the desk lamp higher, the light revealing the strangers face in the photo. High forehead, intelligent eyes, a faintly mocking smile. Good LordI had his nose. That slight tilt of the head
*”Charlotte?”* Mums voice made me jump. *”Why didnt you”*
She froze in the doorway, staring at the scattered letters. The colour drained from her face.
*”Mum, what is this?”* I held up the photo. *”Dont tell me hes just an old friend. I can seeI can feel”*
She sank onto the bed, her hands trembling in the lamplight.
*”William William Hartley,”* she said, her voice hollow. *”I thought this would stay buried.”*
*”Buried? This is my life! Why did you lie? Why did he”*
*”Because it had to be that way!”* Pain cracked her voice. *”You dont understandhis parents, mine They wouldnt let us be together.”*
Silence settled like thick cloth. Somewhere in the distance, a train whistledthe very one Id missed earlier. Coincidence? Or had fate decided the truth was due?
We talked until dawn. Outside, the sky lightened; inside, the air was thick with cold tea and unspoken words.
*”He was an English teacher,”* Mum murmured, as if afraid to scare the memories. *”Fresh out of university, assigned to our school. Handsome, passionaterecited poetry from memory. Half the girls were in love with him.”*
I barely recognised her. Where was the eternally composed woman I knew? Before me sat someone elseyoung, lovestruck, her eyes alight.
*”And then”* She bit her lip. *”Then I found out I was expecting. You cant imagine the uproar. His family called me a provincial distraction, mine raged about shame”*
*”And you just gave up?”* Bitterness crept into my voice.
*”He was transferred. No discussion. A month later, I met your”* She hesitated. *”your father. A good man. Steady.”*
*Steady.* The word echoed. Like an old armchair. Like these very walls.
*”But the letters Why keep them?”*
*”Because I couldnt throw them away!”* For the first time, real anguish broke through. *”They were all I had left. He wrote every month, then less often But he wrote.”*
The last letter was dated three years ago.
*”My dearest Evelyn, Ive moved to Whitbya little house on Hawthorn Lane. Perhaps one day Yours always, W.”*
*Whitby.* I said it slowly. *”Thats barely three hours from here.”*
Mum paled. *”Dont even thinkCharlotte, dont dig up the past”*
*”The past?”* I stood. *”This isnt the past. Its my present. And I have a right to know.”*
Outside, dawn broke. A new day demanded new choices.
*”Im going. Today.”*
For the first time that endless night, I knew I was doing the right thing.
**14th October**
Whitby met me with a salty wind and drizzle. The little seaside town felt frozen in time: crooked terraces, cobbled lanes straight out of a Brontë novel.
Hawthorn Lane was on the outskirts. I walked slowly, checking house numbers. My heart pounded so loud it couldve echoed down the street.
Number 17. Neat, small, with lace curtains and golden asters in the front garden. The gate was unlocked.
*What do I even say? Hello, Im your daughter?*
I didnt have to decide.
A tall, silver-haired man stepped onto the porch, a book in hand. He looked upand the book fell.
*”Evelyn?”* he whispered.
*”No not Evelyn.”*
*”Im Charlotte,”* my voice shook. *”Charlotte Edwards though Im not sure about the surname anymore.”*
William Hartley went white, gripping the railing.
*”Good Lord,”* he managed. *”Come in please.”*
The house smelled of books and fresh coffee. Shelves lined every wall. Above the fireplacea print of Turners *”The Fighting Temeraire,”* my favourite painting since childhood.
*”I always knew this day would come,”* he said, fiddling with teacups. *”But I imagined it a thousand different ways”*
*”Why didnt you fight for us?”* The question escaped before I could stop it.
He stilled, the kettle in his hand. *”Because I was weak,”* he said simply. *”Because I believed it was for the best. The greatest mistake of my life.”*
The raw ache in his voice constricted my chest.
*”You know,”* he gazed past me, *”every birthday, I bought you a gift. Theyre all here.”*
He opened a door. I gasped. Neat stacks of books lined the room, each tied with ribbon.
*”First edition *Alices Adventures in Wonderland*for your fifth,”* he lifted the top volume gently. *”*The Little Prince* with the authors illustrationsseven I chose what Id have read to you.”*
I traced the spines. Thirty years of lost conversations, thirty years of unshared stories.
*”And this”* He pulled a worn anthology. *”Your first published story. *Letters to Nowhere.* I recognised your styleyou write like I do.”*
*”You followed my work?”* I didnt know whether to be angry or weep.
*”Not followed. Just lived alongside. Like a shadow. Like a reflection in a warped mirror.”*
We talked until evening
