‘Madam, you don’t have a ticket. Get off the bus,’ the driver shouted, looking at a frail old woman in a tattered coat who could barely hold on to the handrail to keep from toppling over.
The bus was almost empty. Outside, wet snow was falling lazily. She remained silent, only clutching her tattered shopping bag tighter.
‘I said get out! This isn’t a nursing home!’ – bellowed the driver louder.
The bus seemed to freeze. Some passengers turned their heads away, pretending not to see. The girl at the window bit her lip in frustration. The man in the dark coat frowned but did not move.
The old woman moved slowly towards the exit. Each step was difficult for her. The doors swung open with a loud hiss, and an icy wind blew in her face. She stopped on the step, staring at the driver.
Then she spoke:
After that she went downstairs and walked away.
The bus remained standing with the doors open. The driver turned away as if trying to hide from his own thoughts. Somewhere in the back of the bus someone was sobbing. A girl at the window was wiping her tears. A man in a coat stood up and headed for the door. One by one, passengers began to leave the bus, leaving their tickets on the seats.
In a few minutes the bus was empty. Only the driver remained, sitting silently, with an unspoken ‘sorry’ burning inside him.
Meanwhile, the old woman walked slowly down the snow-covered road. Her silhouette disappeared into the dusk, but every step radiated dignity.
The next morning the driver came to work as usual. Everything was as usual: the early hour, the thermos with coffee, the list of routes. However, something inside him had changed forever.
The driver couldn’t shake off his anxiety. He hardly slept at all, haunted by the memory of her eyes – not angry, not hurt, just… tired. And the words that echoed in his mind, ‘I gave birth to men like you. With love.’
As he drove his route, he scrutinised the faces of the elderly people at the bus stops. He wanted to find her, though he wasn’t sure why. To help? To ask for forgiveness? Or at least admit he was ashamed
A week passed.
One evening, as his shift was winding down, he spotted a familiar figure, small, slouching, at a bus stop near the old market. Same coat, same bag.
He stopped the bus and got off.
‘Grandma…’ he said quietly. ‘Forgive me. Then…I was wrong.’
She looked up at him. And then… she smiled softly. No anger. No reproach.
He helped her into the bus and sat her in the front seat. On the way, he offered her some tea. They travelled 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 a few extra tokens in his pocket – for those who couldn’t afford a ticket. Especially for grandmothers.
Every morning before his shift started, he remembered her words. They were not just a reminder of his guilt, but a lesson – to be human.
Spring came suddenly. The snow melted quickly, and soon bunches of snowdrops appeared at bus stops – grandmothers were selling them, three flowers wrapped in cellophane. He began to recognise their faces, to say hello, to help them get on the bus. Sometimes he would just smile – and see how much it meant to them.
He looked for her every day. Asked around, described her. Someone said she might have lived near the cemetery, behind the bridge. He even went there sometimes on his day off – no uniform, no bus. Just walking. Looking for her.
And one day he found a modest wooden cross with an oval-framed photograph. Those eyes.
He stood there for a long time, silent. The trees whispered, sunlight filtered through the branches.
The next morning there was a small bouquet of snowdrops on the front seat of the bus. He had picked them himself. Next to it he placed a cardboard plaque he had cut out with his own hand:
‘For those who have been forgotten. But who never forgot us.’
The passengers read the inscription in silence. Some smiled. Some left a coin on the seat. And the driver just continued on his way. Slower, more cautious. Sometimes he stopped a little earlier, so the grandmother could catch up with him.
Because now he understood: Every grandmother is someone’s mum. Every smile is someone’s gratitude. And every ‘just a few words’ can change someone’s life.
