She replied with just a couple of words.

— Madam, you don’t have a ticket. Please leave the bus, — the driver snapped, glaring at the frail woman in an old coat who was barely holding onto the handrail to keep from falling.

The bus was nearly empty. Outside, wet snow fell slowly, and the gray dusk wrapped the city in its gloom. She stayed silent, clutching her worn shopping bag tighter — the kind usually used for groceries.

— I said: get off! This isn’t a nursing home! — the driver raised his voice.

The bus seemed to freeze. A few passengers averted their eyes, pretending not to notice. A girl by the window nervously bit her lip. A man in a dark coat frowned but remained seated.

The elderly woman slowly made her way to the door. Every step was a struggle. The doors opened with a loud hiss, and an icy wind slammed into her face. She stopped on the step, her gaze fixed on the driver.
Then she said quietly but firmly:

— I once gave birth to people like you. With love. And now I’m not even allowed to sit down.

With that, she stepped off the bus and walked away.

The bus remained parked with its doors open. The driver turned away as if trying to hide from his own thoughts. Somewhere deep inside the bus, someone sobbed. The girl by the window wiped away her tears. The man in the coat stood up and headed for the exit. One by one, passengers began to leave the bus, leaving their tickets on the seats.

Within minutes, the bus was empty. Only the driver remained, sitting in silence, the unspoken word “sorry” burning inside him.

Meanwhile, the old woman walked slowly along the snow-covered road. Her silhouette faded into the twilight, but every step she took radiated dignity.

The next morning, the driver came to work as usual. Everything seemed the same: the early hour, the coffee thermos, the route list. But something inside him had changed forever.

He couldn’t shake the unease. He had barely slept. Over and over he saw her face — not angry, not offended, just… tired. And her words haunted him:

“I once gave birth to people like you. With love.”

He drove along his route, finding himself studying the faces of elderly people at the stops. He longed to find her, though he didn’t even know why. To apologize? To help? Or at least to admit that he was ashamed.

A week passed.

One evening, as his shift was ending, he spotted a familiar figure at a stop near the old market — small, hunched over. The same bag, the same coat.

He stopped the bus, threw open the doors, and stepped out.

— Grandma… — he said quietly. — Please forgive me. Back then… I was wrong.

She lifted her eyes to him. And then…

…she offered the faintest smile.
— Son, life’s too short to carry grudges. But I can’t accept apologies from strangers. Tell me your name.

— It’s Doru, ma’am. Doru Popescu.

— And I’m Elisabeta. Friends call me Bia.

The way she said “friends” made his chest tighten. He took a breath, bracing for scolding, but she simply nodded toward the bus.
— Well, Doru Popescu, are you going to keep your passengers waiting?

He blinked; the bus was empty. Realizing his shift clock was still ticking, he motioned toward the front row.
— Ride with me to the depot? On the house.

She hesitated, then climbed aboard. He offered his arm, and she leaned on it the way a child trusts a parent crossing traffic.

As the bus rumbled through slushy streets, Bia traced shapes on the fogged window. Finally she spoke.
— I used to ride this very route every Friday to see my husband. He worked the night shift at the steel mill. After he passed, I still rode—habit, you know? Two months ago, my purse was stolen. Haven’t replaced my pass yet.

Doru’s throat thickened. I threw her into the snow for losing a purse.
— Why didn’t you ask someone to pay your fare that day?

She chuckled softly.
— Pride is a stubborn coat, even warmer than this old thing.

The depot lights appeared. Doru parked, then turned in his seat.
— Let me fix this. I’ll buy you a monthly pass right now.

Her brows lifted.
— And what about next month? And the one after? Bus passes won’t stop the world from forgetting older folks, dear.

He opened his mouth, closed it, then said,
— How about I remember? How about I do something?

The next morning, Doru pinned a handwritten flyer on the drivers’ notice board:

Seven drivers signed up the first week. They pooled tip-jar coins to cover the lost fares. Word spread fast—faster than city hall bureaucracy ever could. By the third Saturday, half the fleet was in. Some passengers tossed in extra cash; a bakery donated pastries; a local radio host rode along and aired interviews from the buses.

One of those interviews featured Bia. She sat beside the mic-boom, hands folded atop her famous grocery bag.
— I’m nobody special, she told the listeners. Just a grandma with tired feet. The kind driver here reminded me that tired feet still deserve kindness.

Doru nearly missed a turn; tears blur steering wheels.

At month’s end, the transit authority summoned Doru. He walked into the marble lobby sure he’d be fired. Instead, the director waved a newspaper: “Silver Seats Movement Sweeps City.”

— You cost us some revenue, Popescu, the director grumbled, but the board loves the press. We’re adopting it officially. One free senior day per week, funded by local sponsors. You’re heading the committee.

Doru stammered a thank-you, mind racing. Committee? Him? He’d barely passed high-school math. Yet the moment he stepped outside, he pictured Bia boarding any city bus without fear of cold shoulders or colder snow.