The Bench At Stop Ten
Aleksy and Hanna got off the bus at the depot. Ole, who had been listening to most of the conversation from the driver's seat, simply nodded at them and locked up the bus.
It was past midnight. Aleksy walked Hanna to a taxi rank — Hanna's mother had, once she had heard the basic outline by text, said it was safer than walking from the depot. Aleksy paid for the taxi over Hanna's protest, gave the driver Hanna's address, and waved her off.
Before she got in, Hanna said: "Aleksy. May I — may I write to you? Just — to know that you are — alright."
He thought.
"Yes, Hanna. I would — I would like that. I will leave a small letter for you, with Ole, on the bus next Friday."
The next Friday, on the eleven-fifteen bus, there was a small letter waiting for Hanna with Ole. Hanna took it. She sat at the front. The man — Aleksy — was not on the bus. The seat at the back was empty.
She read the letter at home.
The letter said:
*Hanna. Thank you for staying on the bus. I have, since we last spoke, done a thing I had not been able to do in eighteen months.*
*I told my daughter what I had been doing. She did not, as I had feared, find me broken. She found me — in her words — heartbreaking. We sat together for an hour on the night I told her. She asked if she could come on the bus with me, this Friday. I said yes. We are both, tonight, taking the bus, together, all the way to stop ten.