The bus was nearly empty.
Outside, snowflakes danced through the gray city dusk, settling softly on icy sidewalks. Inside, the only sound was the hum of the engine—until the driver’s voice broke the silence.
“Madam, you don’t have a ticket. Please get off the bus,” he snapped.
The elderly woman he was glaring at could barely keep her balance, holding the handrail tightly with one hand and clutching an old shopping bag with the other. Her coat looked thin. Her face even thinner.
She said nothing.
“I said, get off! This isn’t a nursing home!”
His voice got louder. Meaner.
A few passengers stirred, uncomfortable.
A young girl by the window bit her lip. A man in a dark coat frowned, but stayed seated. No one moved.
Slowly, the old woman turned and began walking to the door. Each step was heavy.
The doors opened with a hiss, and a burst of cold wind rushed in.
She stood at the edge of the step, facing the driver.
And with a voice calm but piercing, she said:
“I once gave birth to people like you. With love. And now I’m not even allowed to sit down.”
Then, she stepped into the snow and disappeared into the gray twilight.
The bus stayed still.
The driver sat frozen, his hands gripping the wheel.
From the back, a sob echoed quietly.
The girl by the window wiped a tear. The man in the coat stood up. One by one, passengers began to leave. Some left their tickets on the seats in silent protest.
Within minutes, the bus was empty.
Only the driver remained.
Alone with his guilt.