Every evening, like clockwork, the old woman appeared at the weathered bus stop by the market. Wrapped in a green coat too heavy for the season, she would pour tea from her thermos and sip slowly, eyes fixed on the road. No one knew her name. People called her “Mama Bus Stop.” She never missed a day, no matter the rain or dust.
Children speculated about her past. Some said she was waiting for a long-lost son, taken by war. Others said she was once rich and abandoned, still hoping someone would come back for her. Adults whispered more cautiously. Some believed she was simply unwell, trapped in a routine that no longer made sense.
But one day, a boy — maybe nine or ten — walked up to her and asked, “Who are you waiting for?” The old woman smiled gently and said, “Not for someone. I’m waiting for a memory to make peace with me.” The boy didn’t understand, but he never forgot her words.
Weeks passed. Then months. One day, she didn’t come. People noticed. They talked. Someone placed a flower on the bench. The boy returned, sitting quietly where she used to. The city moved on, but that stop became more than a waiting point. It became a reminder — of silence, of stories unspoken, of grief that never leaves completely.
Now, every time a bus passes, the boy — now older — wonders if her memory ever arrived. He never saw her board. Maybe she was the destination all along.