A Young Boy Sitting at the Bus Stop

Again, for the second time and already weary, I walked down the small path leading to the main road through the center of all the silence of a village. But something unpredictable stirred my curiosity the moment I reached the crossroads. When I turned to the left, I saw, to my surprise, a young boy sitting at the bus stop. I walked cautiously, like a feline ready to pounce on its prey, my mind consumed with suspicion. As I descended the street, I couldn't take my eyes off the bus stop, trying to confirm it wasn’t a mirage. Why would someone be there, at that hour, of that age, for anything unrelated to school? The high likelihood of predictability turned into an optimism that, even to me, seemed excessive.

I greeted the boy, who replied in the same manner with a simple “Good morning.” I couldn’t tell if his brevity came from disinterest in my presence, disdain for knowing my character, a lack of willingness to engage in conversation, or if he was merely a shy boy of few words. He said nothing more. He was certainly older, with short, dark hair like his eyes. He wore a jacket over a t-shirt, as if ready to stroll through snowy trails, but most notably, he carried a backpack. He looked straight ahead, too serious, seemingly observing nothing, or perhaps the void, frequently glancing to his left, as if not to miss the sight of the bus colors appearing behind the trees. From his facial expressions, I could tell he was as surprised to see someone there as I was.

None of the many questions created by the surprise of the moment, which piled up inside me, were voiced.