I bought a secondhand car and, while cleaning the interior, discovered a diary tucked under the front seat.
Are you kidding me, Alex? Seriously? The whole department spent three months on this project and youre telling me the concept has changed?
Alex stood in the managers office, fists clenched until his knuckles turned white. Owen Irving, a bulky man with a perpetually sour expression, didnt even glance up from his paperwork.
Alex, lets not have a tantrum. The brief changed. A client can have a second thought, 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 paperworkthrow it in the bin? People were losing sleep over this!
They were paid for the overtime. If anyones unhappy, HR works from nine to five. You can go. Im not holding you up.
Alex turned without a word and walked out, slamming the door so hard the window frame sang. Colleagues gave him sympathetic looks as he snatched his jacket from the coat rack and stepped into the damp October air. Enough, throbbed in his temples. Enough. He walked, mind a blur, angry at his boss, at the client, at the whole world. He was tired of being at the mercy of other peoples whims, of the timetable of the overcrowded bus, of everything. He needed something of his ownsmall, but his. A piece of personal space where no one could stick their nose in with a new concept.
That thought led him to the sprawling usedcar market on the edge of Manchester. He drifted between rows of battered vehicles, not really knowing what he was looking for. Shiny foreign hatchbacks stood beside battered British vets. Then he saw it: a modest, cherryred, impeccably clean Ford Fiesta. Not brand newabout seven or eight years oldbut it looked as if someone had loved it.
Interested? a cheerful salesman in his thirties asked. Great choice. One previous owner, driven gently, mostly for work and home. Low mileage, never smoked inside.
Alex walked around the car, peered inside. It was tidy, not sterile. You could feel that people had lived there, not just used it to get from point A to point B. He slipped into the drivers seat, rested his hands on the cool plastic. For the first time that day the tension began to ebb.
Ill take it, he said, surprised by his own resolve.
The paperwork took a couple of hours. Soon he was cruising through the evening streets in his very own car. The word my warmed his chest. He turned on the radio, lowered the window, let the crisp air rush in. Life suddenly seemed less bleak.
He parked in the courtyard of his old council flat, stayed there for a while, getting used to the new feeling. Then he decided the car needed a proper clean, a fresh start free of any trace of its former owner. He bought cleaning supplies, cloths and a vacuum from a 24hour shop and went back to the car.
He polished everything to a shine: the dashboard, the door panels, the windows. When he reached the space beneath the front seats, his hand brushed something hard. He pulled out a small notebook bound in dark blue leather. A diary.
Alex turned it over, feeling uneasy. Someone elses life, someone elses secrets. He almost tossed it onto the back seat and walked away, but something stopped him. A tiny, tidy script greeted him on the first page: Emma. Just a name. He opened to the first entry.
12 March.
Victor shouted again today. Over something trivialI forgot to buy his favourite yoghurt. Sometimes I feel like Im living on a powder keg. One wrong step, one misplaced word and it explodes. Then he comes over, hugs me, says he loves me, that it was just a tough day. I want to believe, or at least pretend to. This cherryred little car is my only escape. I turned the music up and drove wherever my eyes could see. Just me and the road. No one yelling.
Alex put the diary down. A strange feeling settled over him. He could almost picture Emma behind the wheel, sad eyes, fleeing the storm at home. He read on.
2 April.
Another fight. This time about my job. He hates that I stay late. Normal women stay at home and bake cakes, he said. I dont want to bake. I love my work, the numbers, the reports. I like feeling useful beyond the kitchen. He doesnt get it. He threatened to go to my boss if I didnt quit. Humiliating. I left the house and went to the Old Park Café. Sat alone, drank coffee, watched the rain. So peaceful. The pastries were lovely.
Alex imagined the Old Park Café, a small, cosy spot near his flat with big windows. He pictured Emma sitting there, alone, watching the rain stream down the glass.
The following days blurred. Daytime: work, endless arguments with Owen; evening: reading the diary. He learned Emma loved autumn, jazz, Remarques novels. She dreamed of painting, but Victor dismissed it as childish dabbling. Her close friend Sophie could talk for hours on the phone.
18 May.
Victor was away on a business trip. The silence was a blessing. Sophie called, we bought wine and fruit and stayed up chatting until midnight. We laughed like we were teenagers again. She told me I should leave him. Emma, hell eat you up, youre fading fast. I know shes right. But where would I go? No parents, his flat is the only place I have. Im thirtyfive. Sophie says age doesnt matter, its just the beginning. Easy for her to sayher husbands a banker.
Alex sighed. He understood that fear. He was fortytwo, and the idea of a radical change made his knees tremble. He, too, lived on a familiar pathwork, home, occasional meetups with his mate Simon. Now he had this car and this diary.
On Saturday he couldnt hold back. He went to the Old Park Café, took a window seat, ordered a coffee and a slice of cakethe same one Emma seemed to love. He stared at it, thinking of her. Was she a tall blonde or a petite brunette? Her eyes were always sad.
The entries grew darker.
9 July.
He raised his hand at me. For the first time. Because I was on the phone with Sophie instead of him when he called. Just a slap. It felt like he broke something inside me, not on my face but in my soul. I spent the night in the car outside his flat. I couldnt go back inside. His lights flickered on and off. He was probably looking for me. Or not. I dont know. It was terrifying and lonely. If it werent for my cherryred little car, I think I would have gone mad.
Alex set the diary down. In his chest a tight knot of injustice formed. He wanted to find Victor and He didnt know what to do, only that he needed to protect herthe woman he had never met.
That evening Simon called.
Alex, where have you vanished to? Off fishing this weekend?
Hey, Simon. Too much work.
What work? You havent even taken a holiday. Whats this mystery? Bought a boat and disappeared?
Alex chuckled.
Almost. Listen, something odd happened
He told Simon about the car, the diary, Emma. Simon listened in silence.
Youve got yourself into someone elses life, mate. Do you really need it?
I dont know. I just feel sorry for her.
Feel sorry for him. It was ages ago. She might have married a millionaire a hundred times and forgotten about Victor. And youre sitting here, grieving for a stranger. Toss the diary.
I cant, Alex admitted.
Then just look after yourself. Dont go crazy. Call if you need anything.
The chat didnt sober him up. On the contrary, he felt compelled to finish reading, to see how it ended.
The notes grew shorter, more fragmented. Emma was on the edge.
1 September.
Summer ended, and so did my patience. He broke the vase my mother gave methe last thing I had left from her. Said it was tasteless and ruined his designer décor. I gathered the shards and knew it was over. No more. I had to leave.
15 September.
Im planning my escape, like a spy film. Funny and scary. Sophie will let me stay at her flat for a while. Im moving books, a couple of sweaters, cosmeticseverything precious. Victor doesnt notice; hes too wrapped up in himself. Ive found an eveningwatercolours class Ive always wanted. It starts in October. Maybe its a sign?
28 September.
Tomorrow. Tomorrow Im gone. Hes off to a conference for two days. Ill have time to collect the rest of my things and leave. Ive handed in my resignation. Ill start a new life. Buy an easel, paints, and paint the autumnyellow leaves, grey sky, and my cherryred car in the rain. My symbol of freedom. Scary as hell. What if it doesnt work? What if he finds me? But staying is even scarier.
That was the last entry. Alex turned the page. Blank. The next page was blank too, and so on until the diary ran out.
He sat in the quiet of his tiny kitchen, wondering what had become of Emma. Had she managed to leave? Did Sophie find a flat? Had she started painting? Dozens of questions swirled. He felt as if hed watched a series to the very last episode, only to have the finale cut out.
He kept rereading the final pages, until he noticed a slip of paper hed misseda receipt from The Painters Supplies on Mira Street, dated 29 September. It listed a set of watercolour paints, brushes, paper and a small tabletop easel.
So she had indeed bought them. She was preparing.
Alex glanced at the date. The diary was from the previous year. Exactly one year had passed.
What now? He could try to find her, but how? Emma, no surname. A friend named Sophie. Little information. And why? To disrupt a new life she might have built? To remind her of a past shed left behind?
He set the diary aside. A week slipped by. He went to work, argued with Owen, returned home. Yet everything felt different. The world seemed richer. He began to notice little things: sunlight glinting in puddles, the amber turning of ash trees, the baristas smile at the corner café. He was seeing the world through Emmas eyes, the eyes of someone who longed for an ordinary, quiet life.
One evening, scrolling aimlessly through the news, he saw an announcement: Autumn OpenAir Exhibition Emerging Artists. In the list of participants he recognised the name Emma Wilson. He clicked, and a modest gallery of her work opened. Among landscapes, stilllifes and portraits was a small watercolour of a cherryred Ford Fiesta parked on a rainy lane, the rain blurring the world around it. It was alive, a touch melancholy, yet full of hope.
He smiled. She had made it. She had left. She was painting. She was living.
He found Emmas profile on a social network. The avatar showed a smiling woman in her midthirties, short hair, bright eyes. She stood beside her canvases, a contented expression on her face. No Victor, no painjust a calm, creative life.
A wave of relief washed over Alex. It was as if a heavy weight had been lifted. He didnt write to her, didnt add himself as a friend. There was no need. Her story had found its own ending, a happy one, and that was enough.
He lifted the diary again. It was no longer just a collection of strangers secrets; it was a testament to courage. A reminder that its never too late to change everything.
The next day, after work, Alex stopped by The Painters Supplies on Mira Street. He wandered among the aisles, finally buying a modest canvas and a set of oil paints. He had never painted before, but an urgent desire sparked within him.
Back home, he set the canvas on his kitchen table, squeezed bright colours onto a palette, and picked up a brush. He didnt know what would emergeperhaps a mess, perhaps the start of his own story. Rain began to patter against the window. Everyone has their own road and their own autumn. Sometimes, to find your path, you have to stumble across anothers.
And so, with each brushstroke, Alex learned that the only true freedom comes from creating your own direction, no matter how late the season.
