It was 11:47 PM when Riya reached the deserted bus stop, rain lightly tapping on her umbrella like a ticking clock. The last bus was due at midnight, and if she missed it, she'd be stuck in the city overnight—a thought that made her hug her coat tighter.

A man stood at the far end of the shelter. He looked to be in his fifties, wearing a faded gray suit and a tie that had clearly seen better days. He glanced at her and smiled—a tired, polite kind of smile.

“Long day?” he asked.

“Very,” she replied, cautious but not cold.

They stood in silence, save for the hum of streetlights and the occasional whoosh of a passing car. Then, he spoke again.

“I used to wait for this bus every night. Ten years ago. Same stop, same time.”

Riya looked at him. “Really? What changed?”

“My daughter grew up,” he said, smiling faintly. “I used to take this bus after working late to get home and read her a bedtime story. Even if she was asleep, I’d read it next to her. Just so she knew I came home.”

Riya softened. “That’s sweet.”

“She stopped waiting eventually. I guess… kids grow up. Stop needing stories. But sometimes I still come here. Habit, maybe.”

The headlights of the last bus pierced the mist. It slowed, sighed as it stopped.

Riya stepped forward, then paused. “You getting on?”

The man looked at her, eyes gentle. “No. I’ll catch the one in my memory.”

She boarded, and as the doors closed, she turned to look back.

The man was gone.

Just the sound of the rain remained.

---

Reflection:

Sometimes, the places we return to aren’t about where we're going—but who we used to be. Memory has a strange way of boarding the same old buses, even when life has moved on. Maybe we all have a stop we visit now and then—not for the ride, but for the reminder.

What’s your "last bus"? The moment you revisit, the habit you haven’t let go of, the story you still hope someone’s listening to?

Let me know in the comments. I'd love to hear yours.