She couldn’t sleep that night.
Not after York.
Not after the scarf.
Not after Reginald’s hand on her elbow and the look she hadn’t returned.
She reached for her notebook.
Her pen hovered. Not over a new page. But the first one. Still faintly creased at the corner, like it had waited.
It began—not with gnomes, or jam, or fig bar diplomacy—but with tangerines.
She wasn’t yet Maggie B. Not officially. Not even in the way you are when you try a name out in your head first, see how it fits alongside your face in the mirror.
Back then, she was just trying not to be noticed.
The coat she wore was one size too large, a charity shop find that smelled of boiled sweets and floral talcum. Her hair was shorter. She hadn’t found the rhythm of the village yet. Her walks were aimless. The dog hadn’t found her. The notebook hadn’t either.
She was on the platform because she had nowhere else to be.
It was the 3:42 to Buxton. Or from Buxton. She never boarded it. Just watched it arrive, count the beats of the engine, and disappear again like a polite regret.
That day, a man dropped a bag of tangerines.
It split cleanly—plastic too thin, probably reused. The fruit spilled like marbles across the concrete, bumping into bootheels and brushing the edge of the painted yellow line.
She stepped forward before thinking. Kneeling to help.
Her fingers brushed against his as they reached for the same piece. Her thumb came away with a strand of pith. He looked at her.
Everything in her stilled.
He’d been her therapist once. Or her handler. Or something between the two, depending on who was paying the invoice.
Back then she was a version of herself she no longer trusted: sharp-edged, briskly articulate, brittle from holding it together. He always asked too slowly. She always answered too fast.
She hadn’t seen him since… well. Since she stopped. Walked out mid-session. Cancelled the final appointment with a note about “conflict of interest” and no return address.
Now, here he was. Hair grey at the temples. A bit of a stoop. Same eyes. Softer around the edges.
He didn’t flinch.
“Thank you,” he said, tangerine in hand.
“You’re welcome,” she replied.
A pause. A tilt of the head.
“You look familiar,” he said. “Have we—?”
She shook her head, not quickly, her hand still on the fruit.
“I’m not from around here.”
He nodded, slowly. Looked down at the fruit. Rearranged it in his arms.
“Well. Kindness is rarer than it should be. I appreciate it.”
She said nothing.
The train arrived. He stepped on. He didn’t look back.
She stood there long after the sound faded.
That evening, she made tea she didn’t drink. Set the cup beside the unopened post and left a damp ring. Turned on the radio. Turned it off again. Shifted the envelopes from one counter to another; one, stamped twice, slid to the top. As if she needed to keep the silence moving.
She kept feeling the moment their fingers brushed—light, unspoken, irreversible.
He had let her lie — and she was relieved.
The next morning, she bought a small grey notebook from the post office—the kind no one ever asks about, meant for shopping lists or mileage. She weighed it in her hand; it made no sound.
She chose the grey one: a tool meant for mileage, not memory. A WI flyer curled at the door outside, half-slipped from its pin.
She opened to the first page. Didn’t know what to title it. Wrote the date. Then the word “platform.” Then paused.
Then wrote it all.
She didn’t number the case. Didn’t call it one.
But that was the beginning. Not of the village.
Of recording.
Of making sure things didn’t disappear unnoticed.
Now, years later—after York, after the scarf, after the fruit—she taps the edge of a newer page. Case #29. Or maybe #30. The numbers blur sometimes.
But her thumb brushes that first page—the one never numbered, never filed. She still feels the faint trace of pith.
She hadn’t given it a title then. No outcome. No observation. Just the facts, and a page that stayed quiet longer than most.
But now—
She read it again.
And named it.
She smiled.
Not because it was solved.
But because it still lingers.
Casefile #0 – This One Doesn’t Count
(Filed late. Named on rereading.)
Observation: Some moments don’t ask to be remembered. But they refuse to be forgotten.
Outcome: He dropped the tangerines. I didn’t drop the silence.
Additional note: The first case. Not of the village. Of myself.
She tapped the page once.
Then closed the book.
And just for a moment, she thought of him—
a man who once held her story, and then let it go.
Like fruit.