**The Old Man on the Bus**
The morning was damp and raw, the kind that clings to your skin. Sleet fell over the little town of Keswick, leaving greasy streaks on coats and umbrellas. The sky hung low and grey, as weary as the people beneath it. The air tasted of wet iron, thick enough to choke on.
William squeezed onto the crowded bus at the high street. Bodies pressed close—bags, the smell of damp wool and last night’s takeaway. Everyone stood shoulder to shoulder, yet alone, buried in phones or weary thoughts. He was on his way to another job interview, his fifth this month. Each time, silence followed—polite but hollow. At forty-seven, it wasn’t a fight anymore, just the desperate scramble of a man life had pinned down long ago.
He gripped the rail, hunched against the lurching bus. Every bump jolted through him like a reminder of luck gone bad. The air reeked of damp tobacco and something sour. Someone coughed behind him; a bag jabbed into his ribs.
Then a voice, rough but steady:
“Make room for the old chap, won’t you?”
No one moved. A few buried themselves deeper in their screens; others pretended not to hear. The voice came again, edged with tired annoyance:
“He’s got a cane. Can’t stand proper.”
William turned. The old man was thin as a bare branch, his overcoat worn at the cuffs. Snow melted on his cap, dripping onto his shoulders. Someone grudgingly shifted, and the man shuffled next to William. He smelled of liniment and peppermints, something faintly papery, like old books. In his hands, a dog-eared notebook, its corners curled with age.
“Ta,” he said, to no one in particular. “Off to the clinic. Neurology. Memory’s gone spotty.”
“Happens,” William muttered, unsure what else to say.
The old man squinted up at him.
“You headed to work?”
“Interview.”
“Ah. Still fighting, then. Not given up.”
William gave a bitter chuckle.
“No time left to give up. Just trying to keep going.”
The old man fell quiet, studying the floor.
“Used to give blood when I was young. For the money. Then they told me I’d got a rare type. Called me in regular after that. Once, saved a kid. Never met him—just got told ‘a child needs it.’ So I went.”
William nodded.
“Good to have someone to live for.”
“No,” the old man said softly. “Good to be needed. Not by blood, just… because. Otherwise, what’s the point?”
He adjusted his cane, planted it firmly, as if steadying himself in the moment. Then he looked at William with a quiet, faded warmth.
“You remind me of my lad,” he said suddenly. “Only he’s in Australia now. Keeps asking me to come. Won’t go, though. What for? I’m needed here.”
William turned to the window. Grey terraces slid past, peeling fences, hooded figures at bus stops.
“You,” the old man continued, “don’t be afraid to be yourself. Worst thing is lying to yourself. Do that—and you’re gone. Walking, breathing, working. But empty inside.”
William looked down. Words tangled in his throat. The old man stared out the window.
They rode four more stops in silence. Then the old man turned.
“This is me.” He pressed a scrap of paper into William’s hand.
“What’s this?”
“Doctor’s appointment. Neurology. Mine. Don’t need it now.”
“Why not?”
“Because I remembered. Everything that mattered.”
He stepped off, leaning heavy on his cane. The doors hissed shut behind him.
William stared at the paper. Frayed, smudged. *Dr. Hughes—11:00.* No address, no number. Just a time.
He rode to his stop. Stepped out. Stood under the shelter, watching the sleet fall. His face was blank, like a man who’d forgotten where he was going.
Then he turned and walked the other way. Not to the interview. Not home. Just forward—past shops, lampposts, strangers. The paper tucked in his pocket.
He didn’t know where he was headed. But for the first time in years, he felt alive. Not worn down. Not hollow. Just alive.
**Lesson:** Sometimes, it takes a stranger to remind you who you are.
