She replied with just a couple of words.

— Madam, you don’t have a ticket. Please leave the bus, — the driver snapped, glaring at the frail woman in an old coat who was barely holding onto the handrail to keep from falling. The bus was nearly empty. Outside, wet snow fell slowly, and the gray dusk wrapped the city in its gloom. She stayed silent, clutching her worn shopping bag tighter — 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 passengers averted their eyes, pretending not to notice. A girl by the window nervously bit her lip. A man in a dark coat frowned but remained seated. The elderly woman slowly made her way to the door. Every step was a struggle. The doors opened with a loud hiss, and an icy wind slammed into her face. She stopped on the step, her gaze fixed on the driver. Then she said quietly but firmly: — I once gave birth to people like you. With love. And now I’m not even allowed to sit down.

With that, she stepped off the bus and walked away. The bus remained parked 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 her tears. The man in the coat stood up and headed for the exit. One by one, passengers began to leave the bus, leaving their tickets on the seats.

Within minutes, the bus was empty. Only the driver remained, sitting in silence, the unspoken word “sorry” burning inside him. Meanwhile, the old woman walked slowly along the snow-covered road. Her silhouette faded into the twilight, but every step she took radiated dignity. The next morning, the driver came to w ork as usual. Everything seemed the same: the early hour, the coffee thermos, the route list. But something inside him had changed forever. He couldn’t shake the unease. He had barely slept. Over and over he saw her face — not angry, not offended, just… tired. And her words haunted him:

“I once gave birth to people like you. With love.” He drove along his route, finding himself studying the faces of elderly people at the stops. He longed to find her, though he didn’t even know why. To apologize? To help? Or at least to admit that he was ashamed. A week passed. One evening, as his shift was ending, he spotted a familiar figure at a stop near the old market — small, hunched over. The same bag, the same coat. He stopped the bus, threw open the doors, and stepped out.

— Grandma… — he said quietly. — Please forgive me. Back then… I was wrong. She lifted her eyes to him. And then… …she offered the faintest smile. — Son, life’s too short to carry grudges. But I can’t accept apologies from strangers. Tell me your name.