The bus stop at 6:15
The old man at the bus stop always carried a small wooden box. Every evening at exactly 6:15, he’d sit on the same cracked bench, open it slightly, smile to himself, then close it again before anyone could peek inside.
People in the neighborhood made up stories about him. Some said it held money, others said secrets. I never really cared—until the day it started raining heavily and everyone ran for cover… except him.
I hesitated, then walked over and sat beside him.
“Aren’t you going to move?” I asked.
He shook his head slowly. “I’ve waited here too long to miss today.”
Curiosity got the better of me. “What’s in the box?”
He looked at me for a long moment, then finally opened it fully.
Inside was nothing but old letters—hundreds of them—each neatly folded, some worn from time.
“They’re all from her,” he said quietly. “She used to take this same bus every evening. We met here, talked here… planned a life here.”
“What happened?” I asked.
“I told her I was too busy to meet one day,” he replied, staring at the letters. “Just one day. She got on that bus alone… and never came back.”
The rain softened. The road grew quiet.
“I come here every day,” he continued, “just in case I get another chance to say what I should’ve said.”
He closed the box gently and stood up as the bus approached.
Before stepping in, he turned to me and said,
“I wish I knew.”
