The Last Bus Home

The bus doors slid open with a hiss, and Rowan stepped inside, the scent of old leather and engine fumes filling his nose. It was late—later than usual, but the last bus home was always predictable. Same dim yellow lighting, same tired driver who never spoke, same handful of silent passengers.

Rowan took his usual seat near the back, by the window. Outside, the city passed by in a familiar blur—neon signs flickering, empty sidewalks stretching into the dark. He put in his earbuds, but for some reason, he didn’t press play. The quiet hummed around him, thick and heavy.

Then he noticed something.

The old man who always sat at the front wasn’t there. Neither was the girl with the red scarf, the one who never looked up from her book. Instead, the seats were filled with different people—ones he didn’t recognize.

Rowan shifted, uneasy. Maybe they’d just taken a different route tonight. Maybe he was just tired.

Then a voice beside him:

“You missed your stop.”

Rowan turned. A boy, around his age, sat next to him—though he was sure the seat had been empty when he boarded. The boy was staring straight ahead, hands folded neatly in his lap.

Rowan blinked. “What?”

"You always get off at Greenview,” the boy said, his tone casual. “But tonight, you didn’t.”

A chill crawled up Rowan’s spine. He hadn’t told anyone where he lived.

“Do I know you?” he asked.

The boy finally looked at him. His eyes were dark, unreadable. “Not yet.”

The bus rumbled on. The city outside looked different now—the streets stretching too long, the buildings taller than they should be, leaning inward like they were listening.

Rowan swallowed hard.

“Where is this bus going?”

The driver didn’t turn his head. The other passengers sat still, their faces blank, their bodies too rigid. The windows no longer showed the city.

Outside, there was nothing but a vast, endless road.

The boy beside him smiled.

“Home.”