**Diary Entry A Stranger on a Cold Winters Night**
*December 14th*
He stopped me just as I was about to walk past. “Wait,” he said, his voice strained. “I stepped off the train for just a moment at your station, and when I got back, my things were gone. I looked out the window and saw a man walking away with my bag. I chased him, but he vanished”
“You couldnt have just gone back to your seat and sorted it out later?” I asked, already irritated. My patience was thin after a long shift.
“By the time Id searched for him, the train had left.”
I sighed. Another complication in an already exhausting day.
I was tired, trudging home from work at a small florists in the heart of London. The shop was always busy, but Christmas had made it unbearable. The cold bit through my coat, and snow crunched underfoot as I walked, dreaming only of collapsing into bed.
Lost in thought, I barely noticed the man until he was right in front of mefortyish, poorly dressed, standing awkwardly. I sidestepped him, but he spoke again.
“Excuse me, could you help me? Just for a moment?”
I paused, wary.
“I was on my way to see my daughter,” he said, shaking his head. “Something happened on the train” He trailed off, looking embarrassed.
I tried to step past him again, but he blurted, “Someone took my bagmy clothes, my wallet, my passport. I reported it, but they told me to wait. The next train isnt for hours. I just I need to warm up. Ill pay you back.”
“You want me to let a stranger into my flat?” I scoffed.
He looked up at the sky, his face so wretched I almost felt guilty. “No one will even listen to me,” he muttered.
I studied him. His coat was shabby, but his eyes were clear. Maybe he was telling the truth.
“Fine,” I said grudgingly. “Come on before you freeze.”
He followed me inside, dripping snow onto the hallway floor. “Go wash up,” I said, nodding toward the bathroom. “Ill find you something to wear. Whats your name?”
“Michael,” he said before shutting the door.
The sound of running water filled the flat as I rummaged through my brothers old things. He lived in Manchester now, but a few jumpers remained.
Mum would be home soon. If she walked in to find a strange man in our bathroom, shed have a fit. I prayed shed be delayed at the shops.
No such luck. The door clicked open.
“Emily, youre home! Ohwhos in the shower?” Her eyes narrowed.
“Mum, dont shout. He got left behind by his train. Hes just cleaning up, then hell go.”
She huffed. “You brought a stranger into the house? Have you lost your mind?”
Before I could argue, Michael emerged, dressed in my brothers clothes, looking sheepish.
“Right, then. How does a grown man end up like this?” Mum demanded.
He explained about his daughters wedding in Manchester, the stolen bag, the missed train.
Mum softened slightly but still eyed him like a suspicious parcel. I heated some soup.
Over dinner, Michael told us he ran a small electronics repair business with a friend. Hed been advised not to drive, so he took the trainworst decision ever.
I watched him, struck by the thought that Mum was right. I was nearly thirty, living at home, no prospects. Thered been a fiancé once, until I came home early and found him with my best friend.
“Youre kind,” Michael said suddenly. “Things will work out for you.”
I laughed weakly. “What about you? Why are you alone?”
“Divorced. Never met someone as decent as you. Modern womentoo cautious. Men too, I suppose.” He smiled ruefully.
We talked until his friend calleda car was waiting downstairs.
“Thank you,” he said, standing. “Ive left my number. Doubt youll call, but if you ever need anything”
I walked him out. The streetlights cast long shadows as he climbed into the car, waving once before it pulled away.
“Gone, then?” Mum asked when I came back.
I nodded, swallowing the stupid lump in my throat.
Three weeks passed. New Years Eve, and I was stuck at work. The owner apologised but insistedholiday rush.
Then I saw him.
A Santa Claus, complete with sack, handing out sweets outside the shop. When he walked in, I knew that voice.
“I thought youd be working,” Michael said, grinning under the fake beard. “Fancy a surprise?”
The owner shooed me out. “Go on, enjoy yourself.”
A month later, I quit the florists and moved to Manchester.
Mum was thrilled. “One less to worry about,” she said, already planning grandchildren.
Funny how we call the bad things “fate” and the good ones “luck.” Maybe theyre just two sides of the same coin.
