**The Autumn Whirlwind of Fate: An Unexpected Encounter with Eleanor**
Autumn, for many, is a season of melancholy—grey skies, chilly rain, bare trees. But Eleanor adored it, especially late September, when the woodlands blazed with gold and the air carried the scent of fallen leaves. She was fifty but felt youthful, as though age were merely a number she seldom remembered.
Eleanor cherished meeting friends, sometimes venturing to the countryside to visit Oliver and Margaret, whose cosy cottage stood at the forest’s edge. There, among the trees, she felt utterly free. For the last nine years, she had lived alone. Her marriage, spanning two decades, had crumbled the day her husband returned home and declared bluntly, *”I’m leaving. I’ve fallen for someone else. Let’s part amicably.”*
The news struck like lightning. Eleanor, stifling tears, managed, *”Understood. Go. There’ll be no arguments.”* Her voice trembled, but she held firm. Her husband, taken aback by her composure, echoed, *”You mean it? I’m gone for good.”*
*”Go. I won’t weep for you,”* she snapped, though the moment the door closed, she dissolved into sobs. Thank God her daughter wasn’t home—Eleanor wept as if her world had shattered. Later, she marvelled at how she’d kept her dignity in that instant.
Loneliness came in waves, especially after her daughter married and moved away. But her friends never let her dwell—dragging her to cafés, walks, concerts. Eleanor learned to treasure her newfound independence, answering to no one.
Three years later, her husband returned unannounced. *”Forgive me. I was wrong. Let’s try again,”* he pleaded. Eleanor only laughed. *”I’m happy alone. You can’t step into the same river twice.”*
*”You’re serious? You’d let me go just like that?”* he muttered, stunned.
*”You’re a stranger now. You left—keep walking,”* she replied coolly.
*”She wasn’t who I thought,”* he admitted, shamefaced.
*”Life isn’t some fling. Family is different,”* Eleanor said, shutting the door on him for good. It infuriated her that he assumed she’d take him back. But she’d long since moved on. Men at work flirted, asked her out, yet she kept them at arm’s length, preferring companionship to romance.
That September evening, she walked home through the park. Leaves rustled underfoot; the air was crisp. She loved this route, though it lengthened the journey. Tomorrow, her friends had planned a picnic to savour the last warmth of the year. Lost in thought, Eleanor didn’t see the car rounding the corner until it braked sharply, its bumper grazing her coat with a muddy smudge. The driver leapt out, apologising profusely. *”I’m so sorry! I signalled! Are you alright?”* He dabbed at her sleeve with a tissue.
Annoyed at her own carelessness, Eleanor grumbled, *”It’s fine. Just a coat to wash.”*
*”Please forgive me,”* the man fretted. *”I’m David. Let me drive you home?”*
*”Eleanor. Don’t trouble yourself—I’m already here,”* she said, nodding to a nearby building. With a brief smile, she turned away. David watched her go, regretting his lost chance. *”What a poised woman,”* he thought. *”Anyone else would’ve shouted the street down.”*
Eleanor replayed the encounter all night. He’d been unexpectedly charming—fifties, salt-and-pepper hair, stylish glasses, trim build. She even phoned Margaret, gushing, *”Imagine—nearly run over, and the driver was… rather dashing.”*
*”Goodness, Ellie—smitten already?”* Margaret teased.
Meanwhile, David couldn’t shake her gaze from his mind. He lived alone in his parents’ old house in a quiet market town, having come down from London after his father’s funeral. A surgeon by trade, he’d divorced two years prior—his wife had left him for his best mate. Running into an old school friend, Oliver, he’d accepted an invitation to a picnic.
Saturday dawned bright. After coffee, Eleanor met Margaret at the shops for cakes, then rode out to the countryside. Oliver manned the barbecue; Margaret sliced fruit. The veranda was perfect for an autumnal feast. Eight friends laughed over stories, glasses clinking.
*”Dinner’s ready!”* Oliver called. Chairs scraped as chatter swelled. Then his phone rang. *”Drive round—gates are open!”* Moments later, a black Range Rover pulled in.
*”An old classmate,”* Margaret explained. *”Here for his father’s memorial. Ran into him yesterday.”*
A man stepped out. Eleanor squinted—then froze, cheeks flushing. *”Margaret, it’s him! The one who almost hit me!”* she whispered.
Oliver clapped the newcomer on the back. *”Everyone, this is David, an old friend from London! Been years!”*
David greeted the group—then spotted Eleanor. *”Bloody hell! Spent all night wondering where to find you, and here you are!”*
Oliver gaped. *”You two know each other?”* When David recounted the near-miss, the group erupted in laughter. *”Fate!”* Margaret crowed, clapping.
David slid into the seat beside Eleanor. *”Not letting you slip away again. Yesterday, I choked. Today, I won’t.”*
Now, they live in a sprawling home near their friends. David sold his London flat and the family house to build it. He works at the local hospital; Eleanor retires soon, dreaming of a garden awash with blooms. She swears autumn is her season—born in October, now gifted David, the man who became her destiny.