The Bus Ride Home

📖 The Bus Ride Home

By : Sami ullah

The city was nearly asleep when I boarded the last bus home.
Rain drummed softly on the roof, tapping in rhythm with the hum of the old engine.
The streets outside were blurred by fog and light — reflections dancing in puddles like fading memories.

I took a seat near the middle, pulled my jacket tighter, and stared out the window.
It had been a long, bitter day.
Not because of work, but because of words — sharp, careless words that had left a crack between me and my father.

We hadn’t spoken in weeks.
Pride had built a wall neither of us wanted to climb.


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🌧️ The Quiet Bus

There were only five passengers that night — a young woman scrolling through her phone, a mother humming softly to her sleeping child, a student dozing off with a backpack as a pillow, and an old man sitting across from me, holding a small bouquet of faded flowers.

He looked out the window, lost in thought.
Something about the stillness in his eyes drew me in.

After a while, I said, “Those are nice flowers.”

He looked down, smiled faintly.
“They were nicer this morning,” he said.
“I’ve been carrying them around all day.”


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🕊️ The Man with the Flowers

The bus rattled over a pothole, and one of the petals fell to the floor.
He bent slowly to pick it up and sighed.

“I bring them every year,” he continued, voice soft.
“For my wife. She passed ten years ago today.”

I didn’t know what to say.
“I’m sorry,” I murmured.

He waved his hand gently. “Don’t be. We had a good life. A real one. Full of laughter, mistakes, forgiveness. Especially forgiveness.”

He smiled — not with sadness, but with the kind of peace that only comes from making peace with yourself.


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💬 The Conversation

“Were you visiting her?” I asked quietly.

He nodded.
“I went to the lake where we first met. I sat there and talked to her. Told her about our children, about the grandkids she never got to meet.”

His voice cracked just slightly.
“I used to blame myself for the things I said before she died. Words said in anger, you know. We all think we have more time.”

He looked at me, eyes glistening under the dim bus light.
“But time doesn’t wait. So we forgive. Even if the other person isn’t here to hear it.”

Something inside me shifted — a quiet recognition.
Those words, we all think we have more time, echoed in my head.


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🚏 The Stop

As the bus slowed for the next stop, he stood, gripping the handrail.
He placed the bouquet carefully on the empty seat beside him.

“You’re leaving them?” I asked.

He smiled.
“Someone else might need them more than I do tonight.”

Before stepping off, he turned to me and said,
“Son, don’t wait too long to forgive. The heart gets heavier the longer you carry what hurts it.”

Then he was gone, swallowed by the rain and the city’s faint glow.


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💐 The Flowers

The bus moved again, humming through the wet streets.
I looked at the seat beside me — the flowers resting quietly, droplets of rain still clinging to their petals.

Without thinking, I took out my phone and opened the message thread with my father.
There were half-written texts, unsent apologies — little fragments of pride and pain.

Finally, I typed:

> “Dad, I’m sorry. I miss you.”



I stared at the message for a moment before pressing send.
For the first time in weeks, I felt like I could breathe.


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☀️ The Morning After

When I woke the next morning, sunlight filtered through the curtains.
My phone buzzed — a new message.

> “I was waiting for you to say that. Come home for breakfast.”



A single tear slipped down my cheek. I smiled, whispering a thank-you to no one in particular — maybe to the old man, maybe to the universe.


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💭 Final Thought:

That night, the bus didn’t just take me home.
It carried me back to forgiveness, to family, to peace.

Sometimes, the people who heal us aren’t the ones we know — they’re the strangers who cross our paths at the exact moment we’re ready to listen.

And sometimes, the smallest gestures — a few wilted flowers left on a bus seat — can change everything.