I buy a secondhand car and, while cleaning the cabin, I discover a diary tucked under the passenger seat it belongs to the previous owner.
Are you kidding me, Alex? Seriously? The whole department has spent three months on this project and youre suddenly saying the concept has changed?
Alex stands in the managers office, fists clenched until the knuckles turn white. Oliver Irving, a heavyset man with a perpetually sour expression, doesnt even glance up from his paperwork.
Alex, cut the drama. Concepts evolve. The client can change their mind 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 into the bin? People have been pulling allnighters!
We paid them for the nights. If anyones unhappy, HR works from nine to five. You can leave now. Im not holding you.
Alex turns silently and walks out, slamming the door so the glass in the frame rings. He passes colleagues who give him sympathetic looks, snatches his jacket from the desk and steps into the damp October air. Enough, thuds in his temples. Enough. He walks without looking at the road, angry at his boss, at the client, at the whole world. Hes tired of being at the mercy of other peoples whims, of the cramped bus timetable, of everything. He wants something his own small, but his. Even a sliver of personal space where no one can stick their nose in with a new concept.
That thought drags him to the massive carmarket on the outskirts of Birmingham. He wanders between rows of used vehicles, not even sure what hes looking for. Shiny sides of pricey imports sit beside battered veterans of British motoring. Then he spots it: a modest, cherryred, impeccably clean Kia. Its about seven or eight years old, but it looks as if its been loved.
Interested? a cheerful thirtyyearold salesman asks. Great pick. One previous owner, driven carefully, mainly for work and home. Low mileage, no smoking inside.
Alex circles the car, peers inside. Its tidy, not sterile. You can feel that someone lived there, not just used it to get from point A to point B. He settles in the drivers seat, his hands on the cool plastic. For the first time that day he feels the tension ease.
Ill take it, he says, surprised by his own decisiveness.
The paperwork takes a couple of hours. Soon hes cruising through the evening streets of the city in his own car. The word my warms his chest. He turns on the radio, rolls down the window and lets the cool air in. Life suddenly seems less bleak.
He parks the car in the driveway of his old council flat, sits for a long time without getting out, adjusting to the new feeling. Then he decides the interior must be spotless, leaving no trace of the previous owner. He runs to the 24hour garage, buys carcleaning chemicals, cloths and a handheld vacuum, and returns to the vehicle.
He polishes everything to a shine: dashboard, door panels, windows. When he reaches the area under the seats, his hand brushes against something hard. He pulls out a small notebook with a dark blue cover. A diary.
Alex flips it over, feeling uneasy. Someone elses life, someone elses secrets. He was about to toss the notebook onto the back seat and forget it, but something stops him. A neat, tidy script greets the first page. Margaret. Just a name. He opens to the first entry.
12 March.
Today Victor shouted again because I forgot his favourite yoghurt. Sometimes I feel Im living on a powder keg one wrong step, one misplaced word and everything explodes. Then he comes over, hugs me, says he loves me and that it was just a rough day. I believe him, or I pretend to. This cherryred car is my only escape. I turn on the music and drive wherever my eyes take me. Just me and the road, and no one yelling.
Alex puts the diary down, a strange discomfort settling over him. He can almost picture Margaret behind the wheel, sad eyes, fleeing from domestic storms. He keeps reading.
2 April.
We fought again, this time over my job. He hates that I stay late. Proper women stay at home and bake pies, he says. I dont want to bake pies. I love my work, the numbers, the reports. I want to feel useful beyond the kitchen. He doesnt get it. He threatened to go to my boss if I dont quit. Humiliating. In the evening I went to the Old Park café, sat alone, sipped coffee and watched the rain. It was peaceful, and the pastries were delicious.
Alex recalls the Old Park café a small, cosy spot not far from his flat, large windows looking out onto the street. He imagines Margaret at a table, alone, watching raindrops race down the glass.
The next days blur. By day he works, arguing with Oliver, by night he reads the diary. He learns Margaret loves autumn, jazz, and Remarques novels. She dreams of learning to paint, but Victor dismisses it as childish doodling. She has a close friend, Sophie, with whom she can chat for hours on the phone.
18 May.
Today was a good day. Victor left on a business trip the silence is blissful. Sophie called, came over, we bought wine and fruit and stayed up talking till midnight, laughing like we were teenagers. She says I should leave Victor. Margaret, hell swallow you whole, youre fading fast. I know shes right, but where would I go? No parents, his flat is my home. At thirtyfive its scary to start over. Sophie says age isnt a barrier, its the beginning. Easy for her to say; she has a husband whos a goldmine.
Alex sighs, relating to the fear. Hes fortytwo, and the thought of a major change makes his knees shake. He, too, has lived on a familiar track: workhome, occasional meetups with his friend Sam. Now the car and the diary sit on his kitchen table.
On Saturday he cant hold it in and goes to Old Park. He takes a window seat, orders a coffee and a slice of cake the one Margaret apparently loved. He sits and imagines her, sometimes a tall blonde, sometimes a petite brunette, but always with sad eyes.
He keeps reading. The entries grow darker.
9 July.
He raised his hand at me for the first time. Because I talked to Sophie on the phone instead of him when he called. Just a slap, but it feels like he broke something inside me, not on my face but in my soul. I spent the whole night in the car outside his flat. I couldnt go back inside. The lights flickered. He was probably looking for me, or maybe not. I dont know. It was terrifying and utterly lonely. If it werent for my cherryred haven, I think Id have gone mad.
Alex puts the diary aside, his chest tightening with a sense of injustice. He wants to find Victor and He isnt sure what to do, only that he wants to protect her the woman hes never met.
That evening Sam calls.
Hey Alex, where have you gone off to? Planning a fishing weekend?
Hey Sam, Ive got a lot on my plate.
What kind of plate? You havent even taken any holiday. Whats this mystery? Bought a cottage and disappeared?
Alex smirks. Almost. Listen, theres something»
He tells Sam about the car, the diary, Margaret. Sam listens in silence.
Wow, Sam says finally. Youve stuck your nose into someone elses life. Do you really need that?
I dont know. I just feel sorry for her.
Feel sorry for him. Its old news. Shes probably married a millionaire by now and has forgotten Victor. And youre sitting here grieving for a stranger. Toss that notebook.
I cant, Alex admits honestly.
Fine, think about it. Dont end up in a mental ward over this. Call me if you need anything.
Sams words dont sober Alex up; they push him to finish the diary, to find out how it ends.
The entries become shorter, sharper. Margaret is clearly on the brink.
1 September.
Summer is over, and so is my patience. Today he smashed the vase my mother gave me the last thing I owned from her. He called it tasteless and said it ruined his designer décor. I gather the shards and realise its the end. I cant stay. I have to leave.
15 September.
Im drafting an escape plan like a spy movie absurd and frightening. Sophie will let me crash at her place for a while. Im slowly moving my books, a couple of sweaters, cosmetics the most valuable stuff into her flat. Victor never notices; hes too caught up in himself. Ive found an evening watercolor class Ive always wanted to try; it starts in October. Maybe thats a sign?
28 September.
Tomorrow. Tomorrow I leave. Hes off for a twoday conference, giving me time to collect the rest of my things and get out. Ive handed in my resignation. Ill start a new life. Ill buy an easel, paints, and paint the autumn yellow leaves, grey sky, and my cherryred car in the rain. Its my symbol of freedom. It scares me to the bone. What if it doesnt work? What if he finds me? Staying is scarier.
Thats the last entry. Alex flips the page its blank. The next one is blank too, and so on until the diary ends.
He sits in the quiet of his tiny kitchen. What happened to Margaret? Did Sophie manage to get her a flat? Did she ever start painting? Dozens of questions whirl in his mind. He feels like hes watched a series to the very end, only for the finale to be cut.
He rereads the final pages, then notices something he missed before: tucked between the last pages is a small, folded receipt. Its from the Artists Supplies shop on Market Street, dated 29 September. The receipt lists: watercolor set, brushes, paper, a tiny tabletop easel.
So she did buy them. She was preparing.
Alex checks the date the diary is from last year. Exactly one year has passed.
What now? He could try to find her. But how? Margaret, no surname, a friend named Sophie, barely any clues. And why? To disrupt a new life she may have built? To remind her of the past?
He puts the diary aside. A week passes. He goes to work, argues with Oliver, returns home. Yet everything feels different. The world seems larger. He notices sunlight glinting in puddles, the way leaves turn gold on the plane trees, a baristas smile at the café. He sees the world through Margarets eyes, the simple life she craved.
One evening he scrolls aimlessly through the news feed and stumbles on an announcement: Autumn Vernissage Emerging Artists Exhibition. Among the participants is a name: Margaret Green. He clicks. A modest gallery of works opens, and among landscapes, stilllifes and portraits he spots her painting: the cherryred Kia parked under an autumn rain on a quiet lane. A watercolor, vivid, a touch melancholy but full of hope.
He watches the painting and smiles. She made it. She left. She paints. She lives.
He finds Margarets social media profile. The avatar shows a smiling woman in her midthirties, short hair, bright eyes. She stands beside her canvases, no trace of the frightened woman from the diary. Her feed is full of exhibition photos, pictures of her cat, sketches of city streets. No Victor. No pain. Just a calm, creative life.
Alex feels a huge relief, as if a heavy weight has lifted. He doesnt message her, doesnt add him as a friend. Why? Her story has its own ending, and its a happy one. He simply closes the page.
He picks up the diary again. Its no longer just a collection of strangers secrets; its a story of courage, of the fact that its never too late to change everything.
The next day, after work, he drives to the Artists Supplies shop from the receipt. He wanders the aisles, eventually buying a small canvas and oil paints. He has never painted before, but a sudden urge pushes him to try.
Back home, he sets the canvas on the kitchen table, squeezes bright colours onto a palette, and picks up a brush. He has no idea what will come out of it maybe a ruined canvas, maybe the start of his own new story, inspired by the voice of a stranger he found under a car seat.
He looks out the window as rain begins. Everyone has their own road, their own autumn. Sometimes you have to stumble onto anothers path to discover your own.
