**Diary Entry 15th October**
She missed the train. Without warning, she returned home, unable to hold back the tears.
Running late, Emily decided to go back without calling. The moment she stepped inside, the floodgates opened. A biting October wind flung sharp raindrops against her face as she watched the train pull away, swallowed by the distance. A wave of frustration crashed over her. Late. For the first time in fifteen years of routine trips homeshed missed it. *Like a bad dream*, she thought, absently tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. The platform was empty, eerie, yellow lamplight reflecting in puddles, casting strange paths of light.
*Next train isnt till tomorrow morning,* the ticket clerk droned, barely glancing up. *Theres a coach if youre desperate.*
*A coach?* Emily frowned. *Three hours rattling down country lanes? No, thanks.*
Her phone buzzed in her bagMum calling. She hesitated, staring at the screen, but didnt answer. Why worry her? Better to just go home. She always kept her keys.
The cab sped through quiet streets, the city outside the window flat and unreal, like a stage set. The driver muttered about the weather and traffic, but Emily wasnt listening. Inside her, something unfamiliar stirrednot quite anxiety, not quite excitement.
The old house greeted her with darkened windows. Climbing the stairs, she inhaled childhood: roast potatoes from the flat above, laundry powder, the faint scent of aged wood. Yet today, the familiar symphony felt off-key, as if a single false note had slipped in.
The key turned stiffly, as though the door resisted. The hallway was dark and silenther parents mustve gone to bed. Tiptoeing to her room, she flicked on the desk lamp. Everything as shed left it: bookshelves, the old study desk, a threadbare teddy on the beda relic Mum had never thrown away. But something was wrong. Something intangible had shifted.
Was it the silence? Not the usual nighttime hush, but something thicker, heavier, like the air before a storm. The house seemed to hold its breath, waiting. Emily pulled out her laptopwork never sleptbut as she reached for the socket, her hand brushed a small box. It tumbled from the shelf, scattering its contents across the floor.
Letters. Dozens of yellowed envelopes, postmarks faded. And a photograph, its corners curled. A young Mumbarely more than a girllaughing, pressed against a strangers shoulder. A tear hit the photo before Emily even realised she was crying.
Hands trembling, she opened the first letter. The handwriting was bold, confident, entirely unfamiliar.
*”Dearest Margaret, I know I shouldnt write, but I cant stay silent. Every day I think of you, of us Forgive me, I cant even bring myself to write itour daughter. How is she? Does she look like you? Will you ever forgive me for leaving?”*
Her pulse roared. She grabbed another, then another. Dates1988, 1990, 1993 Her entire childhood, her whole life, spelled out in a strangers script.
*”…saw her from afar outside the school. So serious, with a satchel bigger than her. I couldnt bring myself to approach…”*
*”…fifteen years old. I imagine the beauty shes become. Margaret, perhaps its time…?”*
A lump swelled in her throat. The lamplight sharpened the photographs details. A high forehead, intelligent eyes, a smirk Good God, she had his nose. That slight tilt of the head
*Emily?*
Mums voice made her jump.
*Why didnt you?* Margaret froze in the doorway, staring at the letters strewn across the floor. The colour drained from her face.
*Mum, what is this?* Emily held up the photo. *Dont say hes just an old friend. I can seeI can feel*
Her mother sank onto the bed. In the lamplight, her hands shook.
*William William Hartley,* she whispered, as if speaking from another room. *I thought this would stay buried.*
*Buried?!* Emilys voice cracked. *This is my life! Why did you lie? Why did hewhy did everyone*
*Because we had to!* Pain flared in Margarets voice. *You dont understandthings were different then. His family, mine They wouldnt allow it.*
A silence settled, thick as fog. Somewhere in the distance, a train whistledthe very one shed missed. Coincidence? Or had fate decided the truth was overdue?
They talked until dawn. The sky outside lightened; the room smelled of cold tea and unspoken words.
*He was an English teacher,* Margaret murmured, as if afraid to scare the memories away. *Fresh out of uni, assigned to our school. Handsome, recited Keats by heart Half the girls were in love.*
Emily barely recognised her. Where was the ever-practical woman she knew? Before her sat someone elseyoung, smitten, eyes alight.
*And then* Mums jaw tightened. *I found out I was pregnant. You cant imagine the uproar. His parents called it a dalliance with some provincial nobody. Mine threatened to disown me.*
*So you just gave up?* Bitterness seeped into Emilys words.
*He was transferred. No discussion. A month later, they introduced me to yourto Robert. A good man. Steady.*
*Steady,* the word echoed. *Like a worn sofa. Like a cupboard. Like everything in this house.*
*But the letters Why keep them?*
*Because I couldnt throw them away!* For the first time, raw anguish broke through. *They were all I had left. He wrote every month, then less But he wrote.*
Emily picked up the last envelope. Three years old.
*Dearest Margaret, Ive moved to Dartford, bought a house on Oak Lane. Perhaps one day Always yours, W.*
*Dartford,* she said slowly. *Thats barely two hours away.*
Her mother paled.
*Dont even think it! Emily, some pasts are best left*
*Past?* Emily stood. *Mum, this isnt the past. Its now. My now. And I have a right to know.*
Dawn broke outside. A new day demanded new choices.
*Im going. Today.*
For the first time that endless night, she knew she was doing the right thing.
—
Dartford met her with drizzle and a cutting wind. The town seemed frozen in time: red-brick terraces, few pedestrians, quiet lanes straight from a Hardy novel.
Oak Lane was on the outskirts. Emily walked slowly, scanning house numbers. Her heart pounded so loudly it mightve echoed down the street.
Number 17. Neat, modest, curtains drawn, yellow chrysanthemums by the gate. The latch was unlocked.
*What do I even say?* she wondered. *Hello, Im your daughter?*
She didnt have to.
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 Emily.* Her voice wavered. *Emily Carter. Though Im not sure about the surname now.*
William Hartley went pale, gripping the railing.
*Good Lord,* he managed. *Come in. Please.*
The house smelled of books and fresh coffee. Shelves lined every wall. On onea print of Turners *The Fighting Temeraire*, her favourite painting since childhood.
*I always knew this day would come,* William said, fumbling with mugs. *But I imagined it a thousand ways Never like this.*
*Why didnt you fight for us?* The question tore out of her.
He stilled, kettle in hand. *Because I was weak,* he admitted simply. *Because I believed it was for the best. The greatest mistake of my life.*
The raw grief in his voice squeezed her chest.
*Every birthday,* he said softly, *I bought you a gift. Theyre all here.*
He opened a door. Emily gasped. Neat stacks of books lined the room, each tied with ribbon.
*First edition *Alice in Wonderland*for your fifth,* he said, lifting one gently. **The Little Prince* with original illustrationsyour seventh I chose what Id have read to you.*
Her fingers traced the spines. Thirty years of conversations that never happened.
*And this* He pulled
