“Ma’am, you don’t have a ticket. Please get off the bus,” the driver snapped, staring at the frail woman in the old coat who was barely holding on to the handrail to keep from falling.
The bus was almost empty. Outside, wet snow was falling slowly, and gray twilight was enveloping the city. She said nothing, just clutched her worn-out shopping bag tighter.
Advertisements
“I told you to get off! This is not a nursing home!” the driver raised his voice.
The bus seemed to freeze. Some passengers looked away, pretending not to notice. A girl near the window chewed her lip nervously. A man in a dark coat frowned, but remained seated.
The old woman walked slowly toward the exit. Every step was a struggle. The doors swung open with a loud hiss, and a cold wind hit her face. She stood on the step, her gaze fixed on the driver.
And then she spoke – softly, but firmly:
“I gave birth to people like you once. With love. And now I’m not even allowed to sit down.”
Then she got out and walked away.
The bus sat with its doors open. The driver turned away, as if to hide from his thoughts. Somewhere, at the back of the vehicle, someone sobbed. The girl at the window wiped away her tears. The man in the coat stood up and walked toward the exit. One by one, the passengers began to leave the bus, abandoning their tickets on the seats.
In a few minutes, the bus was empty. Only the driver remained, sitting in silence, an unspoken “I’m sorry” burning inside him.
Meanwhile, the old woman walked slowly along the snowy road. Her silhouette faded into the dusk, but every step exuded dignity.
The next morning, the driver showed up for work as usual: at the appointed time, with a thermos of coffee and a list of stops. But something inside him had changed forever.
He couldn’t shake the torpor. He’d barely slept, tormented by the memory of her eyes—not angry, not offended, just… tired. And by the words that echoed in his head: “I gave birth to people like her. With love.”
As he made his way along the route, he began to carefully scrutinize the faces of the elderly people at the stops. He wanted to meet her again, even if he wasn’t sure why. To ask for her forgiveness? To help her? Or at least to admit that he was ashamed.
A week passed.
One evening, toward the end of his shift, he saw a familiar figure at the stop near the old market—small, hunched. Same bag, same coat.
He stopped the bus, threw open the doors, and got off.
“Grandma…” he said softly. “I’m sorry. That other night… I was wrong.”
She looked up at him. And then… she smiled softly. No reproaches. No anger.
“Life, son, teaches us all something. The important thing is to know how to listen. And you – you listened.”
She helped him get her on the bus and sat her down in the front. Then she took out the thermos and offered her some tea. They rode in silence. But it was a different silence – warm, gentle. It seemed to soothe both of their hearts.
From that day on, she always carried a few extra tokens with her – for those who couldn’t afford a ticket. Especially for grandmothers.
Every morning, before starting her shift, she recalled his words. They were no longer just a sign of her remorse, but a lesson – to be human.
Spring came suddenly. The snow melted quickly, and soon bouquets of snowdrops appeared at the waiting points – grandmothers selling them, three flowers wrapped in cellophane. He began to recognize them, to greet them, to help them get on the bus. Sometimes, he would just smile – and see how much that meant to them.
But he never saw that particular grandmother again.
He looked for her every day. He asked around, described her. Someone said she lived across the bridge, near the cemetery. He went there a couple of times on his days off – without a uniform, without a bus. Just to walk. To look.
And one day he found it: a modest wooden cross, with a photograph in an oval. Those same eyes.
He stood there for a long time, in silence. The trees rustled above him, the light filtered through the branches.
The next morning, a small bouquet of snowdrops lay on the front seat of his bus. He had picked them himself. Next to it, he had placed a hand-cut cardboard sign:
“For those who have been forgotten. But who have never forgotten us.”
The passengers read the sign in silence. Some smiled. Some left a coin on the seat. And the driver continued his journey. Slower, more carefully. Sometimes he stopped a little earlier – to allow a grandmother to join him.
Because now he understood: every grandmother is someone’s mother. Every smile is a thank you. And every “few words” – can change someone’s life.