Bus Ride Home

Morning light creeps across the shelter’s parking lot like someone slowly turning up a dimmer switch. The rain has stopped, but puddles gleam like silver coins scattered across the pavement. Mrs. Halloway insists we catch the first bus home. “Storms always make people sentimental,” she says, fastening her old coat. “Best to move before the weather makes us lazy.”

I almost smile. There’s a brisk practicality to her that reminds me of my mother — before everything went sideways. I trail after her, my hair still smelling faintly of the salon’s lavender shampoo. Every time I catch my reflection in a passing window, I flinch a little. It’s strange to see someone that… soft. Neat bangs. Fitted cardigan. A face that doesn’t entirely belong to me but isn’t exactly foreign anymore either.

The bus lurches into motion, and we settle into seats halfway back. The hum of the engine is oddly comforting, like a low lullaby. Mrs. Halloway dozes almost immediately, her chin resting on her scarf. I glance at the phone in her bag — the one that used to buzz endlessly last night. Now it’s silent. I tell myself deleting that message was the kindest thing I could’ve done.

Outside, the world slides by in watercolor motion — green hills, misty barns, the occasional gas station that looks older than either of us. Somewhere between mile marker twenty and thirty, the tension in my shoulders eases. For the first time in days, I’m just another passenger heading somewhere.

At the next stop, a couple of kids get on with backpacks and earbuds. One of them drops a coin, and I bend to pick it up.

“Thanks, ma’am,” he says with a grin before hurrying off.

Ma’am. The word sticks in my head, both absurd and weirdly gratifying.

We pull into a roadside diner around noon. Mrs. Halloway stretches and declares that “bus coffee is a sin against caffeine,” so we shuffle inside. The place smells like syrup and nostalgia — Formica tables, a jukebox that probably hasn’t worked since the ’90s. The waitress calls me “sweetheart” when she takes our order.

“Pancakes for my granddaughter,” Mrs. Halloway says proudly.

For a moment, I almost correct her. Then I don’t.

The pancakes are fluffy, and the syrup tastes like liquid sunshine. Mrs. Halloway talks about her garden back home — the roses that never quite bloom right, and the neighbor’s cat who thinks her porch swing belongs to him. Her voice is lighter today, almost cheerful. It’s contagious.

When we finally board again, the mood has shifted. The bus isn’t just moving away from the storm — it’s heading toward something else. Something new.

Mrs. Halloway digs through her bag and pulls out a stack of old photographs, flipping through them as we ride. “You were always such a reader,” she muses, showing me a picture of the real Ellie holding a book nearly half her size. “Maybe you’ll start again once we’re home.”

I nod, smiling faintly. The thought of curling up somewhere quiet with a book sounds… nice, actually.

By late afternoon, the scenery changes. The trees thin out; small houses start appearing, their porches sagging but well-loved. Mrs. Halloway straightens her shoulders as if shedding ten years.

“There,” she says, pointing out the window. “That’s home.”

The bus slows in front of a modest white house with a lilac bush by the steps. The porch light glows even though it’s not yet dark — maybe it’s always been left on for someone returning.

We step off the bus, and a breeze catches my hair. The air smells like damp soil and hope. I feel strangely weightless.

Mrs. Halloway pats my arm. “You’ll see,” she says softly. “It’s quiet here. Healing sort of quiet.”

And as the door creaks open, revealing a hallway lined with family photos, I realize this isn’t just her homecoming. Somehow, against every sensible explanation, I’ve arrived too — in a life that feels borrowed but… maybe not entirely wrong.