I bought a secondhand car and, while cleaning the interior, discovered a diary tucked under the front seat it belonged to the previous owner.
Are you kidding me, Alex? Seriously? The whole department spent three months on this project and now youre saying the concept has changed?
Alex stood in the managers office, his fists clenched so hard his knuckles turned white. Oliver Irwin, a bulky man with a perpetually sour expression, didnt even glance up from his paperwork.
Alex, cut the drama. Concepts do change. The client can rethink, and we have to adapt. This is business, not a hobby club.
Adapt? Thats not adapting, thats starting from scratch! All the calculations, all the documentation tossed in the bin? People have been losing sleep over this!
We paid them for the night work. If anyones unhappy, HR is open from nine to six. You can go. Im not holding you up.
Alex turned without a word and stalked out, slamming the door so hard the glass in the frame rang. Colleagues watched him go with sympathetic looks. He snatched his coat from the desk and stepped into the damp October air. Enough, throbbed his temples. Enough. He walked, mind a blur of anger at the boss, the client, the whole system. He was tired of being at the mercy of other peoples whims, of bus timetables, of everything. He needed something of his own a small, private space where no one could push a new concept on him.
That thought drove him to the sprawling usedcar market on the edge of Birmingham. He wandered among rows of battered vehicles, not knowing what he was looking for. Shiny foreign models stood beside weatherworn British veterans. Then he saw it: a modest, cherryred Kia, about seven or eight years old, but lovingly maintained.
Interested? a cheerful thirtyyearold salesman said. Great car. One previous owner, driven carefully, just used for commuting. The mileage is genuine, and the interiors nonsmoking.
Alex inspected the car, slipped his hands onto the cool plastic of the steering wheel, and for the first time that day felt the tension begin to melt away.
Ill take it, he said, surprising himself with his decisiveness.
The paperwork took a couple of hours, and soon he was cruising through the evening streets in his own car. The word own warmed his chest. He turned the radio on, rolled down the window, and let the chilly breeze fill the cabin. Life suddenly seemed less bleak.
He parked the Kia in the drive of his old council flat, sat for a long while, acclimating to the new feeling. Then he decided the interior needed a thorough clean, a fresh start free of the previous owners traces. He bought cleaning supplies, cloths and a vacuum from the 24hour shop on High Street and returned to the car.
He polished everything to a shine: the dash, the door panels, the windows. When he got to the space beneath the seats, his hand brushed something hard. He pulled out a small notebook with a dark blue cover a diary.
Alex turned the pages hesitantly. It was someone elses life, someone elses secrets. He almost tossed it onto the back seat, but a neat, tidy script on the first page stopped him. Eleanor. Just a name. He opened to the first entry.
12 March.
Victor shouted again today. I left his favourite yoghurt out, and he blew up. Sometimes it feels like Im living on a powder keg one wrong step, one misplaced word, and everything explodes. Then he comes over, squeezes me, says he loves me, and that it was just a bad day. I believe him or at least pretend I do. This cherryred Kia is my only escape. I turned on the music and drove wherever the road led. Just me and the road, and no one yelling.
Alex set the diary aside, uneasy. He could almost picture Eleanor behind the wheel, sad eyes, fleeing the storms at home. He kept reading.
2 April.
We argued again, this time about my job. He hates that I stay late. Proper women stay at home and bake pies, he said. I dont want to bake pies. I love my work, the numbers, the reports. I want to feel useful beyond the kitchen. He cant understand that. He threatened to go to my boss if I dont quit. Humiliating. I left for Old Park Café later, sat alone with a coffee, watched the rain. It was peaceful there, and the pastries were delicious.
Alex recognised the café a cosy spot not far from his flat, large windows overlooking the street. He imagined Eleanor there, alone, watching raindrops race down the glass.
The days that followed drifted like fog. By day he fought with Oliver, by night he devoured Eleanors diary. He learned she loved autumn, jazz, and the novels of Remarque. She dreamed of learning to paint, though Victor dismissed it as childish doodling. Her best friend Sarah was a constant on the phone, a lifeline.
18 May.
Victor was away on business. The house was quiet a rare luxury. Sarah called, we bought wine and fruit, and stayed up till midnight laughing like teenage girls. She urged me to leave Victor. Lena, hell swallow you whole, youre fading away. She was right. But where would I go? My parents are gone, his flat is his. Im thirtyfive. Sarah says its never too late, that its just the beginning. Easy for her to say shes married to a wealthy man.
Alex felt the weight of Eleanors fear. He was fortytwo, and the idea of a radical change still made his knees shake. He lived on a predictable routine: work, home, occasional catchups with his friend Simon. And now, a car and a diary had upended that.
On a Saturday he couldnt stand the ache any longer and went to Old Park Café, ordered coffee and a slice of cake the one Eleanor liked, he imagined. He stared at the empty seat opposite, trying to picture her. Was she a tall blonde or a petite brunette? Her eyes were always sad.
He kept reading. The entries grew darker.
9 July.
He raised his hand on me. For the first time. Because I talked to Sarah on the phone instead of answering his call. A slap, really. He said it broke something inside me not my face, but my soul. I spent the night in the car outside his flat, unable to go back inside. His lights flickered. He was probably looking for me, or maybe not. I was terrified and alone. If it werent for my cherryred Kia, I think Id have lost my mind.
Alex set the diary down, his chest tight with injustice. He wanted to find Victor and He didnt know what to do, only that he felt compelled to protect her a woman hed never met.
That evening Simon called.
Hey Alex, where have you vanished to? Planning a weekend fishing trip?
Hey, Simon. Too much on my plate.
What plate? You havent even taken a holiday. Whats with the mystery? Bought a new hobby and hid away?
Alex smirked. Almost. Listen, theres something He told Simon about the car, the diary, Eleanor. Simon listened in silence.
Wow, mate, youre deep in someone elses drama. Whats it to you?
I dont know. I just feel sorry for her.
Feel sorry for him too. It was ages ago. Shes probably married a millionaire by now and forgotten about that Victor. And youre wasting your life grieving for a stranger. Throw that notebook away.
I cant, Alex admitted.
Fine, keep it. Just dont end up in a madhouse over it. Call if you need anything.
Simons words didnt calm him. If anything, they spurred him to finish the diary, to see how it ended.
The entries grew shorter, more fragmented. Eleanor was reaching a breaking point.
1 September.
Summer ended, and so did my patience. He smashed a vase my mother gave me the last thing I had left from her. He called it tasteless and said it clashed with his designer décor. I gathered the shards and realised this was it. No more. I had to leave.
15 September.
Im plotting my escape, like a spy film ridiculous and terrifying. Sarah will let me stay at her flat temporarily. Im moving books, a couple of sweaters, some cosmetics the essentials. Victor doesnt notice; hes too wrapped up in himself. Ive signed up for an evening watercolour class that starts in October. Maybe its a sign.
28 September.
Tomorrow I leave. Victors off to a conference for two days. Ill have time to collect the rest of my things and disappear. Ive handed in my resignation. Ill buy a easel, paints, and start painting autumn yellow leaves, grey skies, and my cherryred Kia in the rain. Its frightening, but staying is scarier.
That was the final entry. Alex turned the page. It was blank. The next page was blank too, and so on, until the diary simply stopped.
He sat in the quiet of his tiny kitchen, wondering what had become of Eleanor. Had she escaped? Did Sarah manage to find a new flat for her? Had she begun to paint? Hundreds of questions buzzed in his mind. It felt as if hed watched a TV series to its last episode, only to have the ending cut out.
He reread the last pages over and over, until he finally noticed a small, folded slip tucked between them a receipt from The Artists Supply on Peace Street, dated 29 September. It listed a set of watercolours, brushes, paper, and a small tabletop easel.
So she had bought them. She was preparing.
The receipt was from the previous year. Exactly one year had passed.
What now? He could try to find her, but with only a first name and a friends name, the trail was thin. And why? To disrupt a new life she might have built? To remind her of the past? He set the diary aside.
A week went by. He argued with Oliver at work, drove home, and everything felt different. The world seemed larger, brighter. He began noticing the sunlight glinting in puddles, the way maple leaves turned amber, the baristas smile at the local coffee shop. He was seeing the world through Eleanors eyes the simple, ordinary life she craved.
One evening, while scrolling aimlessly online, he stumbled upon an announcement: Autumn Open Studios Emerging Artists Exhibition. Among the participants was a name: Eleanor Walsh. He clicked. A modest gallery displayed her watercolour paintings. One piece showed a cherryred Kia parked under an autumn drizzle on a quiet lane vivid, a little melancholy, but full of hope.
He stared at the painting and smiled. She had made it. She had left. She was creating, living.
He found Eleanor Walshs social media profile a smiling woman in her midthirties, short hair, bright eyes, standing beside her artworks. No Victor, no pain, just exhibitions, photos of her cat, sketches of city streets. A calm, fulfilled life.
Alex felt a weight lift from his shoulders. He didnt message her, didnt add her as a friend. Her story was finished, and it ended happily. He simply closed the page.
The next day after work, he returned to The Artists Supply, the shop from the receipt. He wandered the aisles, bought a small canvas and a set of oil paints something hed never tried before, but now felt an urgent need to try.
Back home, he set the canvas on his kitchen table, squeezed bright colours onto his palette, and lifted a brush. He had no idea what would emerge perhaps a mess, perhaps the start of his own new chapter, inspired by the voice of a stranger whose diary hed found under a car seat.
He looked out the window as rain began to fall. Everyone has their own road and their own autumn. Sometimes, to find your path, you have to stumble onto someone elses story first.
The lesson lingered: courage isnt about grand gestures; its about the small decisions that let you claim a piece of the world as your own.
