The Bus Never Stops

A short story

The bus rolled through the foggy hills just after midnight, its interior warm with humming fluorescent lights. Seat fabric faded, windows streaked with drizzle. Outside, the trees flashed by like shadows with secrets.

Tom adjusted his backpack and settled into the third row from the back. A headache pulsed behind his eyes, probably from the argument. He hadn’t even told Leah he was leaving — just slammed the door and walked to the bus stop.

His phone buzzed again.

[Leah] — “Are you okay? Please call me.”

Buzz

[Leah] — “Where are you? Just talk to me, okay?”

He turned it over and shoved it into his jacket pocket.

“She’ll be fine,” he muttered.

A woman in the row ahead turned and smiled. “Tough night?” she asked.

Tom raised a brow. “What gave it away?”

She laughed gently. “You’ve got that ‘my life is a slow-motion car crash’ look.”

He chuckled in spite of himself. “Tom,” he said.

“Miranda.” She offered her hand. Her fingers were cool but firm.

“Long ride tonight.”

“Where’s it heading, exactly?” Tom asked, frowning. “The map was blank at the station.”

Miranda shrugged. “Wherever we need to go, I guess.”

That’s when Tom noticed something strange — no one was wearing headphones. Everyone was chatting quietly, reading, or just staring calmly out the windows. No loud music, no glowing screens. Just… peace.

Too much peace.

…

An older man with a silver beard offered him half a sandwich. “You look like you need it more than me,” he said.

Tom took it, still dazed. “Thanks…?”

“Arnold,” he said. “Retired firefighter. Been through hell. You?”

Tom hesitated. “Sales. Mostly digital logistics.”

Arnold smirked. “So, hell of a different kind.”

Further up, a young boy drew on the window with his fingertip. “Hey, Mister, do you think stars can hear us?”

“I don’t know,” Tom replied. “But I hope not. I said some dumb things tonight.”

The boy giggled. “So did my mom before the crash.”

Tom blinked. “What crash?”

But the boy was already bouncing down the aisle.

He checked his phone again. Another message from Leah.

[Leah] — “They said the crash was bad. They won’t tell me if you’re alive.”

Tom’s chest tightened. What crash?

He stood and walked toward the front. “Hey, driver — ”

But when he got there, the driver’s seat was empty.

The wheel turned itself.

…

Tom stumbled backward. “What the hell — ”

The lights flickered. For a brief second, everyone vanished. The seats were charred. The air reeked of smoke.

Then just as fast, everything snapped back. The bus was whole again. Miranda looked at him, her face soft with sadness.

“You saw it, didn’t you?”

“What was that?” Tom gasped.

“The truth, trying to break through.”

“I don’t — this isn’t right. None of this is right.”

“You’re remembering now,” she said gently. “It always comes in waves.”

Tom dropped into a seat, shaking. “This is a dream.”

“No, Tom,” Arnold said from behind him. “This is the part between. The part people don’t talk about.”

Tom’s phone buzzed one last time.

[Leah] — “They said you have a pulse. But it’s fading. Please, come back. I’m at the hospital.”

The bus shuddered. The world outside turned pitch black.

Miranda leaned in close. “You can still go back. The doors don’t open unless someone truly wants out.”

Tom ran to the door. It stayed shut.

“You have to want to live again,” Arnold said. “That means letting go of the guilt.”

“I didn’t answer her calls,” Tom whispered. “I left. I was cruel.”

“Then fix it,” Miranda said, placing a hand over his chest. “You’re still connected.”

The phone buzzed one final time. Then the screen turned white.

…

In the hospital room, Leah jolted upright as the monitor let out a long beep — and then stabilized.

Tom’s eyes fluttered open.

She grabbed his hand, tears spilling. “You came back. You came back to me.”

He blinked, then cried.

The last thing he remembered was the bright headlights on the road… and the smiling faces on the bus.

…

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