Bridging Stories

Spring is almost round the corner. It’s a Sunday morning, so I get up early to head off to my favorite store that sells old books at cheap prices. Unbelievably cheap.

That’s why I like the place even more. My rundown single room apartment is already so stuffed with tons of books, and I’m certain I will be kicked out from here if I keep a few more. Yet I throw caution to the wind, my mind yelling -"Let’s go get some books, hell yeah!"

The hills to the east are illuminated by the rays of the rising sun. The sound of birds chirping in chorus joins that of the water gurgling down the brook and the gentle wind rustling the leaves. The store is 7-8 miles away, so I grab my bicycle and get going - I want to make the most of this beautiful morning.

I leisurely pass by the quiet streets of the suburb, enjoying the soothing air blowing past me. After 2 hours, the landscape’s changed - the roads are wider and filled with vehicles navigating their way through the traffic, there’s way less greenery and tall buildings surround the area. Taking the side lanes to avoid the traffic, I soon reach the town square.

I park my bicycle, grab a sandwich and walk towards the store that’s at the other end of the bicycle stand. The old man there notices me approaching the store and greets me with a warm smile and gestures at me to take the empty bench. I sit, and gladly accept the tea he humbly offers. We talk about how life's been these days, about the change of seasons and stuff. Like old pals with no worry about time, catching up with things.

I go through the long columns of books he's neatly organized, and he smokes a cigarette and reads a newspaper.

I've already picked a handful of books, but my eyes fall upon an old diary of sorts, it's edges strained with yellow.

It strangely piques my curiosity and I can't help but flip through the pages.

Oh shit. It's one of those oh shit moments that take you by surprise.

Mr. Ashford…It's his diary, no doubt and this is his typical writing style I’ve grown up being fond of. I had been following his works for quite some time, and it was strange how he wasn’t so popular, given his profound ability to write heart-wrenching novels that radiated sincerity and a whole wide spectrum of emotions. He had passed away about 8 months ago, and was survived by his daughter and few close relatives in Willowbrook village.

Intrigued by the prospect of discovering more about the man whose words had resonated so deeply with me, I eagerly purchased the diary. Little did I know that this chance encounter would turn out to be an important chapter of my life.

The bookkeeper was perplexed when he saw me already leaving on my bicycle, so I promised to explain him everything another day. With Mr. Ashford’s diary, I set out on a journey to Willowbrook village, determined to return his diary to his close ones.

It was quite the distance on my old bicycle, but the lovely spring air and the jolly people of Willowbrook more than made up for it. That’s when I was caught off-guard as I did not notice the jeep coming from the left near the intersection, and the next moment I remember was the world going round in circles, and my vision going out slowly, and then into complete darkness.

I woke up in a nursing home bed, with the smell of antiseptic all around and I could see the white sheets drying out in the sun from across the window. My eyes shift focus to a woman of about my age, looking seemingly concerned. That’s when I recollect what had happened - I was hit by a jeep and had lost my consciousness then.

The woman introduced herself as Emily Ashford, and she was none other than Mr. Ashford’s daughter herself!! I was so surprised that I tried to get up from the bed almost immediately; but that’s when I was struck with agonizing pain on my right hand - I had fractured my right hand, and there were some minor injuries on my forehead as well.

Emily asked me to settle down until I adjusted to the pain, and we spent the next hour or so introducing ourselves, and why I had come here. Handing her the diary that was on the table beside my bed, I asked her to keep it as she was the rightful keeper of it, and she smiled kindly and accepted it.

Later in the evening, I was discharged from the nursing home. Emily had come too, and insisted me to stay at their family run inn for some time till I got better. Seeing the state I was in, I thought it was a good idea to rest for some days before heading back.

During the days that followed, as I recuperated in Willowbrook village, Emily and I formed an unlikely bond. Having almost no common interests, the diary and her father’s work was the principal point of our conversations.

Through the pages of Mr. Ashford’s diary, we found a man whose words painted landscapes of joy, sorrow, and undying hope. The little-known writer, nestled in the quiet village of Willowbrook, and his splendid ability to capture the nuances of life and the little things that we, living in a chaotic and busy world, often ignore. Apart from his literary prowess, we also got to know about Mr. Ashford was driven by a deep sense of purpose, and his undying belief that stories could heal, inspire and connect generations. Despite his modest success, he never sought the spotlight; instead, he was content that his words could reach and strike a chord in the hearts of a select few.

Emily, who loved her father deeply, was unfamiliar with the extent of her father's literary endeavors, and was simply awestruck by this revelation. Little did I know then that Emily already had made up her mind to do something special.

After a week, I decided to take my leave. Emily asked me to stay for a few days more, but I told her that wouldn’t be possible as my job necessitated my return. I thanked her for taking care of me all this time, and promised to return to this beautiful village and meet her again soon. I left my cycle, which was in a pretty bad shape, at the inn and returned by train.

With the normal life kicking in, days passed into weeks, and weeks into months. I thought of going back to Willowbrook village and meeting Emily, but man, there’s almost always work, even on weekends :(

It was not until Mr. Ashford’s death anniversary that I finally set for Willowbrook. Once there, I headed straight for the inn, but Emily wasn’t there. For a moment, my heart sank at the thought of her possibly leaving the village for good and that I might never meet her again.

As I had already come this far, I decided to go to the village cemetery, perched at the top of the hill on the west and pay Mr. Ashford my respect. It was a tiring trek uphill, but I made it finally. There was that silence and quietness you only get to feel in places like these.

Treading slowly ahead, I suddenly found a woman laying flowers beside a gravestone. And noticing carefully, it was Mr. Ashford’s grave. When our eyes meet, I recognize them - Emily. It’s Emily.

She gives me a weak smile.

“I knew you’d be here.”

“How did you know?” - I asked.

“Just one of those things.” - she said.

We pay our respects and for some minutes, everything’s so quiet, so peaceful, only after we hear a distant sound of a bird does the silence break.

As we head back towards the village, she steps forward and blocks the path.

“I’ve something to give you.”

“What is it?” - I ask, clueless.

She takes out a book from her book and gives it to me, saying nothing, letting me do the talking after I figure it out. I notice the tears well up in her eyes, in hope and expectation.

As I briefly go through the first few pages, I’m taken aback. I reread the same pages, and a few more, until it all makes sense. Gosh. Over the course of a few months, Emily had gone through many of her father’s masterpieces, and using the diary as a guiding compass, channeled her father’s ideals and storytelling, into the form of a novel.

”Emily, this is incredible!! From what I can tell, you’ve captured the very essence of your father’s ideals here!! I..I..I am just at a loss for words… You are great, Emily, you really are.”

Emily smiles weakly again.

“This book would not have seen the light of day if not for you. And that’s why you deserve to have the first copy.

After you left, I gave it my all, scouring through pages, transcripts, Father’s finished and unfinished works and of course, his diary. And I tried bridging them into one single book, keeping in mind his ideals and the soul of his writing. And it all started when I found you injured near the intersection, and we got to talk about Father.

And that diary, and how someone’s words can reach, affect and inspire people just amazed me, to the point that this book exists. It’s a shared creation between us.”

We spend the afternoon at her inn, reading her book and marveling at the effort she had put in, for her beloved father, for Mr. Ashford, whose work I admired so much.

Later that evening, as the book comes to an end, and it’s time to return, we bid goodbye, with an unspoken promise to meet again.

Heading back to my suburb, the old man at the bookstore greets me.

“Long time no see…What have you been upto all these days, after purchasing that diary? You never returned to tell me…”

I grab 2 cups of coffee from the nearby shop, and sitting besides the old man, Emily’s book in hand, I say -

"It’s going to be one long story, you know…”