“The Man at the Bus Stop”

“The Man at the Bus Stop”

I was running late. Again. It was one of those mornings where everything goes wrong. My alarm didn’t go off, the water was cold, I spilled tea on my shirt, and of course, I missed my usual bus.

So there I was — standing at the stop in a wrinkled shirt, holding a bag with one strap broken, silently cursing the sky and my luck. I checked my phone. 18 minutes until the next bus.

I sighed and sat on the bench.

That’s when I noticed him.

An old man, maybe in his seventies, sat on the far end of the bench. He was neatly dressed — brown sweater, polished shoes, a black cap tilted gently over thinning grey hair. He had a newspaper folded under his arm and a cane resting by his knee.

He looked at me, smiled, and nodded.

I nodded back politely, trying to avoid conversation. I wasn’t in the mood.

But he spoke anyway.

"Late day?"

I gave a half-smile. “Something like that.”

He chuckled. “Life likes to test us like that sometimes. Maybe to slow us down.”

I didn’t respond. But something about his calmness made me less annoyed.

“You know,” he said, looking at the sky, “I used to run everywhere. Meetings, appointments, errands… always rushing. Thought if I stopped moving, I’d lose something.”

I raised an eyebrow. “And did you?”

He smiled wider. “Yes. I lost time. Time with my wife. Time with my son. Time I’ll never get back.”

That got my attention.

“Did you get it back later?” I asked.

“No,” he said. “That’s the thing. Time doesn’t wait around for you to realize it’s precious. It just… moves.”

We sat in silence for a few moments. The street was quiet except for the occasional car.

“I used to sit at this very stop every Sunday,” he said. “My son would come visit. We’d go for coffee. Talk about work, life, dreams. Then he got busy. Said he didn’t have time. I didn’t push him. I thought he’d come when he could.”

He paused, his eyes misty.

“He passed in an accident five years ago. Twenty-six. Still had his whole life ahead of him. Now I sit here… not waiting for a bus. Just remembering.”

I looked away, suddenly ashamed of my earlier frustration.

“I’m sorry,” I said softly.

“It’s alright,” he replied. “Pain teaches us things joy never can.”

The bus finally appeared in the distance.

He looked at me and said, “Do something for me, son.”

“Sure.”

“When you get off this bus, tell someone you love them. A message. A call. Anything. Just don’t wait.”

I nodded. “I will.”

The bus pulled up. As I stood to board, I turned to him. “Aren’t you coming?”

He shook his head. “No, I’m where I need to be.”

I stepped on the bus, turned once more — but he was already reading his newspaper, calm as ever.

I got off near my office, sat on a bench outside, and texted my mother.

“Just wanted to say I love you. Thank you for everything. Always.”

She replied instantly.

“Is everything okay, beta?”

“Yes. Everything’s perfect. I just forgot to say it before.”

That day didn’t go perfectly. I was still late. I spilled more tea. My boss frowned.

But I wasn’t angry. I wasn’t rushing. I smiled more.

And every week since, I’ve taken a walk to that same bus stop. He’s not always there. But sometimes, when I least expect it, I see him — reading the paper, nodding gently as if the world’s chaos doesn’t touch him anymore.

Maybe he was just an old man with a story.

Or maybe… he was a messenger sent for me that day