Madam, you don’t have a ticket. Please get off the bus,” the driver snapped, looking at the frail woman in the old coat who was barely clinging to the handrail to keep from falling.
The bus was nearly empty. Outside, wet snow was falling slowly, and gray twilight had enveloped the city. She said nothing, only tightened her grip on her worn-out shopping bag — the kind usually used for groceries.
“I said get off! This isn’t a nursing home!” the driver raised his voice.
The bus seemed to freeze. A few people averted their eyes, pretending not to notice. A girl by the window bit her lip nervously. A man in a dark coat frowned but stayed seated.
The elderly woman slowly moved toward the exit. Every step was a struggle. The doors flung open with a loud hiss, and an icy wind hit her face. She paused on the step, her gaze fixed on the driver.
And then she spoke — quietly, but firmly:
“I gave birth to people like you once. With love. And now I’m not even allowed to sit.”
Then she stepped down and walked away.
The bus remained standing with its doors open. The driver turned away, as if trying to hide from his own thoughts. Somewhere deep inside the bus, someone sobbed. The girl by the window wiped away tears. The man in the coat got up and headed for the door. One by one, the passengers began to leave the bus, leaving their tickets behind on the seats.
Within minutes, the bus was empty. Only the driver remained, sitting in silence, the unspoken “I’m sorry” burning inside him.
Meanwhile, the old woman walked slowly down the snowy road. Her silhouette faded into the twilight, but every step she took radiated dignity.
The next morning, the driver came to work as usual. Everything seemed the same: early hour, thermos of coffee, route list. But something inside him had changed forever.
He couldn’t shake the restlessness. He had barely slept, haunted by the memory of her eyes — not angry, not offended, just… tired. And the words that echoed in his mind: “I gave birth to people like you. With love.”
As he drove his route, he found himself carefully scanning the faces of the elderly at the stops. He wanted to find her, though he wasn’t sure why. To ask for forgiveness? To help? Or at least to admit he was ashamed.
A week passed.
One evening, as his shift was ending, he spotted a familiar figure at the stop near the old market — small, stooped. The same bag, the same coat.
He stopped the bus, threw open the doors, and stepped out.
“Grandma…” he said quietly. “I’m sorry. Back then… I was wrong.”
She lifted her eyes to him. And then… she smiled softly. No reproach. No anger.
“Life, sonny, teaches all of us something. The important thing is to listen. And you — you listened.”
He helped her onto the bus and seated her in the front. Along the way, he pulled out his thermos and offered her some tea. They rode 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 starting his shift, he would recall her words. They became not just a reminder of his guilt, but a lesson — to be human.
Spring came suddenly. The snow melted quickly, and soon bouquets of snowdrops appeared at the bus stops — grandmothers selling them, three flowers wrapped in cellophane. He started recognizing their faces, greeting them, helping them onto the bus. Sometimes, he just smiled — and saw how much it meant to them.
But he never saw that particular grandmother again.
He searched for her every day. Asked around, described her. Someone said she might have lived near the cemetery, beyond the bridge. He even went there a few times on his day off — without his uniform, without the bus. Just walking. Searching.
And one day, he found it: a modest wooden cross with a photograph in an oval frame. Those same eyes.
He stood there for a long time, silent. The trees whispered above, the sunlight filtering through the branches.
The next morning, a small bouquet of snowdrops lay on the front seat of his bus. He had gathered them himself. Next to it, he placed a cardboard sign he had cut out by hand:
“For those who have been forgotten. But who never forgot us.”
Passengers read the sign silently. Some smiled. Some left a coin on the seat. And the driver simply continued on his way. Slower, more carefully. Sometimes he stopped a little earlier — so that a grandmother could catch up.
Because now he understood: Every grandmother is somebody’s mother. Every smile is someone’s thank you. And every “just a few words” — can change someone’s life.