Forty Seconds

Journal

Every morning, the bus waited forty seconds. Nobody knew why.

Mr. Doyle drove the Number 9 for twenty-two years. Every morning at 7:14, he'd sit at the Elm Street stop and wait.

Mrs. Alvarez was eighty-six and slow with her cane. Forty seconds was exactly how long she needed.

Then one Monday, she didn't come. Tuesday, either. On Wednesday, someone taped flowers to the bus stop sign.

Thursday, the bus left on time. It felt wrong. Like the whole street was holding its breath.

Friday, a young woman stood up and said, 'Wait. Just forty seconds.' The driver smiled for the first time all week.

Now the whole bus waits forty seconds every morning. Nobody's coming. But somebody was. And that's enough.

Forty seconds. That's all it ever was. And it was everything.