When I got back from the shops, there was a man sitting on the bench by my front doorsomeone I’d never seen before in my life. He was clutching an old, battered brown envelope like it contained the secrets of the universe. As soon as I got close, he looked straight at me.
Are you Emily? he asked, sounding like he might burst into a Shakespearean monologue at any moment.
I stopped dead. My shopping bag bumped awkwardly against my knee.
Yes why? I managed, suddenly all ears.
He hauled himself up slowly. He looked about fifty, greying hair and that deeply worn expression you see on people whove had too many cups of tea and not enough holidays.
Ive been looking for you for two days, he said.
My heart did a full somersault.
Why?
He held out the envelope to me as though it was a royal decree. This needs to be with you.
It was heavy. I opened it carefully, half-expecting it to burst into flames. Inside was an old photograph. It was me. Much younger me, standing at a bus stop with a book in my hand and a rucksack slung over one shoulder. I remembered the daynearly twenty years ago now.
How did you get this? I asked, completely baffled.
He gave a sad little smile. From my brother.
My stomach turned somersaults.
I dont have a brother, I said.
No not your brother. Mine. He pointed at the photo. My brother took your picture.
I sat down, feeling dizzy, as if all those bags of potatoes had suddenly become sentient.
Why? I finally managed.
Because he was in love with you back then.
The street around us carried on, cars rumbling and a distant dog barking as though nothing unusual had happened.
Ive never seen him, I said quietly.
You have, he replied.
When?
He sat beside me. He stood at the same bus stop every morning.
I tried to recall those chilly mornings, people clutching coffee, buses screeching their way through puddles.
Was there a man in a dark jacket with a camera? he asked.
Suddenly, I remembereda man who always lingered a bit away, sometimes reading the newspaper, sometimes just watching people pass.
Yes I whispered.
He nodded. That was him.
I stared at the photo again.
Why give me this now?
He paused, as if he was gathering himself for the next scene. Because my brother passed away last week.
I squeezed the photo in my hands.
And he left this?
Yes. He reached into the envelope again and pulled out a little note.
I unfolded itneat handwriting, carefully written like a love letter or a shopping list. If you ever find her, tell her she was the most beautiful thing I saw every morning.
My eyes filled with tears.
Sometimes we walk past people who change our lives without us ever realising, without remembering their faces, without knowing they’ve left us in their dreams.
I looked at the man beside me.
Why didnt he speak to me?
He gave a wistful smile. He thought you were too happy. Didnt want to trouble you.
Silence. I held the photo, trying to reconstruct his face in my mind. But I couldnt.
And sometimes, the strangest feeling in the world is realising you’ve been someone elses memory without ever knowing it.
Tell me honestly If you found out someone had thought about you for years, without ever saying a word, would you have wanted to know sooner?
