**Diary Entry: The Woman in Scarlet**
One frosty morning in the quiet town of Woodbridge, where the wind chased fallen leaves across the platform, I saw her at Northgate Station. She stood at the very edge, as if already halfway out of this world—wrapped in a scarlet coat that fluttered in the subway draft, her hair loosely tucked into a knot, white headphones clinging to her ears like they carried silence, not music. There was no anticipation in her posture, only a stillness heavy with sorrow—as if she knew something the rest of us didn’t, waiting for time to catch up with her grief. Her gaze fixed somewhere beyond the tracks, past the crowd, into some distant place inside her no one else could reach.
I thought of letters never sent, melodies only remembered. She seemed like someone still holding a ghost’s hand—a past that wouldn’t let go.
I missed my train.
She left on the next one.
A week later, I saw her again. Same station, same hour, same cold glow of the platform lights. She stood in that scarlet coat, as if it weren’t just clothing but armour against the world. Detached, like she balanced on the edge of waking and dreaming. This time, she held a single white lily, its stem tied with a thin ribbon. Not just a flower—a symbol. Loss, farewell, acceptance. I wondered if it marked an anniversary, a grief too heavy for words. The lily didn’t speak of love but of surrender to something irreversible.
I stepped closer than before. My pulse raced, as if sensing this moment would change everything.
“Excuse me,” I said, “you dropped your ticket.”
A lie. But I needed her to speak. Or just to see me.
She turned slowly, like waking from a dream. Her eyes were empty, as if staring through me at a shadow long gone. A faint nod. Her gaze held the clarity of a lake and the weight of stone. She carried a burden no one could share. Then the train doors closed, and she vanished into the tunnel, leaving only the bitter scent of lilies behind—sharp as memory.
I began riding the Tube without purpose. Changing lines, stations, times—just to see her again. Sometimes I caught her glance, sometimes just a silhouette through the window. Sometimes only the empty space where she should have been. But I returned, like a pilgrim, drawn by something I couldn’t name.
A month later, I tried again.
“We keep crossing paths… Fancy a cuppa?”
She smiled—softly, as if relearning how.
“Coffee makes my heart race. But tea? Yes.”
We slipped into a tiny shop near the station, sweet with ginger and honey. Time dripped like syrup. Her name was Eleanor. She’d been a singer but left the stage three years ago—”after what happened.” I didn’t ask. A week later, over chamomile tea and a slice of Victoria sponge, she told me.
“I lost my son,” she said, staring into her cup. “He was six. Just didn’t wake up one morning. I was preparing for a lead role at the opera. Then I realised—what’s the point, if I can’t have back the mornings he’d shake me awake, begging for his favourite cartoon?”
I stayed quiet. Not for lack of words, but because none would fit. She gazed out the window and whispered, “If you stay silent long enough, you can hear the city holding its breath.”
We met often after that, without plans or promises. Walked Woodbridge’s icy streets, rode to the end of the line just to sit side by side. Eleanor wrote letters to her son—unsent, tucked in a notebook. Sometimes she’d read me fragments, full of sunlight, grass stains, and warm memory. I listened, too afraid to admit I’d fallen for her. Afraid to shatter her fragile world.
Then one morning, she wasn’t there. Not on the platform, not on any train. A week passed, then another—she’d vanished. Still, I rode the Tube, knowing it was futile. She’d left like migrating birds do—not because they want to, but because they must.
Two months later, I found a note in my jacket pocket. Her handwriting—neat but light as her footsteps:
*”You were my fellow traveller. Thank you for the warmth. I’m moving on. Maybe where I’m going, I’ll remember how to laugh. Don’t look for me. Just remember.”*
I have.
Now I notice people on the Tube—their tears, their distant stares, the smiles hidden in thought. Sometimes, spotting someone in scarlet, my heart stumbles. Then the silence returns.
But one day, I smiled. Realised not everyone leaves forever. Some leave a little light behind—not for them, but for you to carry on.
