But the way she looked at me throughout the ride, with eyes full of something like memory or longing, made me feel as though I had stepped into a story I didn’t yet understand. When her stop arrived, she gathered herself slowly, then leaned close and slipped something into my coat pocket. “Take care of yourself, dear,” she whispered before stepping off the bus and disappearing into the afternoon.
When I reached into my pocket later, my fingers closed around a small locket, smooth from years of being held. I opened it gently. Inside was a faded photograph of a young woman holding a baby, and behind it, a tiny note that read: “Thank you. Years ago, someone gave up their seat for me when I carried my child.” My eyes blurred as I stared at that little treasure, feeling a connection that reached
