It was past midnight when Jasmine boarded the nearly empty city bus. She had just finished her late shift and felt too tired to notice much—until she saw the old man in the back. He was clutching a bouquet of wilted roses, staring at the floor as if the weight of the world sat on his shoulders.
The bus jolted, and one rose slipped from his hand. Jasmine bent down, picked it up, and gently asked, “Who are the flowers for?”
The man’s eyes filled with tears. “My wife,” he whispered. “Today would’ve been our 50th anniversary. She’s gone now, but I bring her roses every year.”
Jasmine’s throat tightened. Without thinking, she sat beside him. For the next twenty minutes, he told her stories—of their first date, their wedding in a borrowed suit, the years raising children in a tiny apartment filled with laughter.
When the bus reached his stop, Jasmine helped him gather the roses. “She’d be proud you still remember,” she said softly.
The man smiled, eyes shining. “She never let me forget. And tonight, neither will you.”
As the bus pulled away, Jasmine realized she hadn’t just heard a love story. She had been reminded of what it meant to cherish someone fiercely, even after goodbye.
