Not heavy rain. Just that fine drizzle that still manages to soak everything, fogging up the bus windows and leaving the pavement with that familiar gray shine.
I drove the route like any other day.
The same children climbing aboard in a hurry.
The same mothers checking the time.
The same fathers saying, “Come on, hurry up,” with a coffee still in their hands.
But I was watching one particular stop.
Dani’s.
I shouldn’t say it like that, because you’re not supposed to become more attached to some children than others.
Or maybe you shouldn’t.
But the truth was, from the moment I started the bus that morning, I had carried a strange ache in my chest, wondering if he would get on.
And how he would get on.
I stopped.
Opened the doors.
And there he was.
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