The next morning, the driver came to work as usual. Everything seemed the same: early hour, thermos of coffee, route list. However something inside him had changed forever.
The driver couldn’t shake the restlessness. He had barely slept, haunted by the memory of her eyes — not angry, not offended, just… tired. And the words that echoed in his mind: “I gave birth to people like you.
With love.”
When he drove his route, he found himself carefully scanning the faces of the elderly at the stops. He wanted to find her, though he wasn’t sure why. To help?
To ask for forgiveness? Or at least to admit he was ashamed. A week passed.
One evening, when his shift was ending, he spotted a familiar figure at the stop near the old market — small, stooped. The the same coat, same bag. He stopped the bus, and stepped out.
“Grandma…” he said quietly. “I’m sorry. Back then… I was wrong.”
She lifted her eyes to him.
And then… she smiled softly. No anger. No reproach.
“Life, sonny, teaches all of us something. The important thing is to listen.
And you — you listened.”
He helped her onto the bus and seated her in the front. Along the way, he offered her some tea.
They rode in silence. But it was a different kind of silence — warm, gentle. It seemed to ease both their hearts.
From then on, he always carried some extra tokens in his pocket — for those who couldn’t afford a ticket. Especially for grandmothers. Every morning before starting his shift, he would recall her words.
They became not just a reminder of his guilt, but a lesson — to be human. Spring came suddenly. The snow melted quickly, and soon bouquets of snowdrops appeared at the bus stops — grandmothers selling them, three flowers wrapped in cellophane.
He started recognizing their faces, greeting them, helping them onto the bus. Sometimes, he just smiled — and saw how much it meant to them.
However he never saw that particular grandmother again.
He looked for her every day.
Asked around, described her. Someone said she might have lived near the cemetery, beyond the bridge. He even went there some times on his day off — without his uniform, without the bus.
Just walking. Searching. And one day, he found a modest wooden cross with a photograph in an oval frame.
