One chilly morning in Manchester, Tom was humming along to the radio on his headphones while mopping the floors at the bus station—a job he’d done for the past decade. The place was practically his second home.
Then, a quiet voice broke through the music. “Excuse me?”
Tom turned to see a woman, maybe mid-thirties, looking worn out. Her eyes were red, cheeks damp with tears, and she clutched a baby in her arms while two older kids clung to her coat.
“Everything alright?” Tom asked, pulling off his headphones.
“I—I need to get to London. Could you help me buy a ticket?” Her voice shook.
Tom frowned. “You seem upset. What’s wrong?”
She hesitated, then whispered, “My husband… he’s not a good man. I haven’t heard from him in days, and I’m scared. My sister’s in London—I just need to get there. But I lost my purse…”
Tom’s heart ached. He didn’t have much, but he couldn’t leave her stranded. He walked to the counter and bought her a ticket with the last of his cash.
“Thank you,” she sobbed as he handed it over. “God bless you.”
“Just take care of those little ones,” he said warmly.
Before boarding, she asked for his address. “I’d like to repay you someday.”
Reluctantly, Tom gave it to her, and soon, she and the children were gone, vanishing into the grey city streets.
That evening, Tom returned to his tiny flat, where his daughter, Lucy, was waiting. She was all he had left after his wife walked out years ago. At just ten, Lucy was already more responsible than most adults—tidying up, helping with dinner, even cracking jokes to cheer him up when work ran late.
They danced around their cramped kitchen, flipping pancakes, then curled up on the sofa to chat about their day. But the next morning, everything changed.
“Dad! Wake up!” Lucy shook him urgently. “There’s something weird outside!”
Bleary-eyed, Tom stumbled to the front door and gasped. Dozens of boxes were piled on their doorstep. One had an envelope on top. Inside, a note:
*Dear Tom, it’s me—the woman you helped yesterday. I wanted to thank you properly. These boxes contain things I meant to take to London, but I’ve left them for you. Sell what you can; you deserve the money. Best wishes.*
Tom barely had time to process it when a *crash* made him spin around. Lucy had dropped a porcelain vase—shattered to bits.
“Lucy!” he scolded, but then something glinted in the wreckage. He picked it up—a sparkling stone. Holding his breath over it, the fog test confirmed it: a real diamond.
“Blimey, we’re rich!” he gasped.
Lucy, though, shook her head. “We can’t keep it, Dad! It’s not ours.” She dug through the packing slips until she found an address. “We have to return it!”
Tom tried to argue—think of the better schools, the life they could have—but Lucy wouldn’t budge. Relenting, he drove to an antique shop, where the owner, Mr. Whitmore, examined the gem.
“Remarkable,” Whitmore murmured, adjusting his loupe. “Flawless cut, superb clarity… Worth at least £80,000. Where’d you get it?”
“Family heirloom,” Tom lied. “Fancy buying it?”
Whitmore excused himself to “consult a colleague,” returning with an offer: £8,000.
“That’s a tenth of its value!” Tom argued.
Whitmore shrugged. “No paperwork, no proof. Take it or leave it.”
Tom stormed out, plotting to forge documents and sell it elsewhere, but when he got home—Lucy was gone. A note sat on the counter:
*Want your girl back? Bring the diamond to this address. No police, or she’s gone for good.*
Tom’s blood ran cold. The woman’s words echoed: *My husband’s not a good man.* The kidnapper’s address matched the one on the boxes.
He raced to a shabby terraced house, where a scar-faced man answered, pressing a gun to Tom’s head. “Diamond first,” he growled.
Tom handed it over—but the man snarled, “This is glass! Where’s the real one?”
Then Tom remembered: Whitmore had “dropped” the diamond earlier. He’d switched it!
The kidnapper gave him three days to deliver £8,000—or else.
Tom sped back to the shop, pretending to accept the low offer. Whitmore refused, smirking, until Tom snapped, pinned him down, and forced the truth: Whitmore and the kidnapper were partners, planning to extort Tom for the full £80k. The diamond was stolen—*hot* property.
Tom knocked Whitmore out, snapped a photo, then called the police with an anonymous tip. Next, he confronted the kidnapper, bluffing: “Your mate’s dead. The real diamond’s in his safe—but good luck getting it now.”
Enraged, the kidnapper stormed off—straight into a police ambush. Tom freed Lucy, who whispered, “Did you really…?”
“No, love,” he grinned. “Just a trick. Cops’ll handle the rest.”
And they did. Both crooks were arrested, though Tom knew *he’d* be in hot water too for not reporting the diamond sooner. But none of that mattered—Lucy was safe.
And that’s what counted.
