The Last Bus Stop

By Raze Edgar

Ethan missed the bus by thirty seconds. He knew that because he stood at the corner of Cedar and Ninth, backpack slipping down his shoulder, watching the red taillights disappear around the bend. The doors didn’t open again. They never did. “Great,” he muttered.

The sky had already started turning gray, the kind of dull gray that made everything look unfinished. Ethan checked his phone. No messages. No signal bars either, just an empty triangle with a little x through it. He sighed and shoved the phone back into his pocket.

Walking home wouldn’t be so bad. It was only three miles. He’d done it once before, when his mom worked late and forgot to pick him up. He just needed to follow the main road until it curved past the old shopping center, then cut through the neighborhood with the big elm trees. Simple. He started walking.

The farther he went, the quieter the street became. Stores closed early here, their windows dark and dusty. The wind picked up, carrying the smell of rain and something older, metal and wet concrete. That’s when Ethan saw the bus stop. It sat beneath a single streetlight halfway down a stretch of road he didn’t remember walking before. A metal bench. A tall pole. No sign. No number. No schedule.

Ethan slowed. “That’s weird,” he said out loud. Every bus stop had a number. Or at least a route name. This one was blank, the sign at the top scraped clean, as if someone had erased it on purpose. Ethan glanced behind him. The road he’d just walked down looked longer now, stretching farther than it should have. The stores were gone, replaced by shadowy shapes that might have been buildings or might have been nothing at all. A low rumble of thunder rolled overhead.

Ethan swallowed and stepped closer to the bus stop. The bench was cold when he sat down, cold enough to bite through his jeans. He shifted, rubbing his hands together. The streetlight above flickered once, twice, then steadied. He checked his phone again. Still no signal. Rain began to fall, light at first, then heavier, tapping against the road in uneven patterns. Ethan hunched his shoulders and stared down the street, hoping to see headlights. Any headlights.

Minutes passed. The world felt strangely paused, like everything was holding its breath. Then the bus arrived. It didn’t roar in like normal buses. It didn’t hiss or groan. It just… appeared, rolling silently out of the rain. The number on the front flickered. 12. No, 7. Then something Ethan didn’t recognize at all. The bus stopped directly in front of him. The doors folded open with a soft sigh. Inside, the lights were dim and yellow, like an old photograph. Rows of seats stretched back farther than they should have, disappearing into shadow. And every seat was filled.

Kids stared back at him. Some were his age. Some younger. Some older, almost teenagers. They wore clothes that didn’t quite fit together, faded jeans, jackets with patches, dresses that looked like they belonged in a different decade. They didn’t smile. A girl near the front leaned forward, gripping the pole by the door. “Don’t get on,” she said. Her voice was calm, but her eyes weren’t. They were wide and tired and too old for her face.

Ethan froze. “What?” Another kid pressed his face to the window, leaving a foggy print. “Please,” he said. “If you do, you won’t remember how to leave.” A murmur rippled through the bus. “Don’t.” “Go home.” “It’s a trick.” Ethan’s heart hammered against his ribs. “Who are you?”

The girl by the pole swallowed. “We’re the ones who waited.” “For what?” “For someone to notice we were gone.” Ethan took a step back. “This isn’t funny.” “No one’s laughing,” she said. Thunder cracked overhead, making the streetlight flicker. For a moment, the bus seemed darker, heavier, like it was pressing into the road. Ethan noticed something then. Some of the kids looked solid and real. Others looked… thin. Like they were fading around the edges, their outlines blurring with the shadows.

“What happens if I get on?” Ethan asked quietly. The girl hesitated. “You don’t disappear,” she said finally. “Not right away.” “But people forget you.” The words landed hard. “They forget your face,” said the boy at the window. “Your voice. Your room. Eventually, they forget your name.” Ethan shook his head. “That doesn’t make sense.” “It didn’t to us either,” the girl said. “But it’s easier than being lonely.” That hit closer than Ethan liked.

The rain fell harder now, soaking his hair and jacket. The road behind him looked even longer, darker. “What is this place?” he asked. “The last stop,” someone whispered. The bus driver shifted. Ethan hadn’t noticed him before. The driver turned his head. Ethan sucked in a sharp breath. The driver looked like him. Older. Thinner. Lines etched around his eyes. His hair was the same color, but duller, like it had lost something along the way.

“You missed the bus once too,” the driver said. His voice was quiet. Tired. “I waited,” he continued. “No one came. This bus did.” Ethan’s chest felt tight. “You’re… me?” “A version,” the driver said. “One who got on.” The girl by the pole looked down. “He stayed,” she said. “He drives now.” Ethan stared at the driver. “You’re trapped?” The driver shook his head slowly. “I chose. Just like you will.”

Lightning flashed, illuminating the inside of the bus. Ethan saw then, every kid inside was holding onto something. A backpack. A jacket sleeve. A memory. Something they didn’t want to let go of. “You don’t have to be alone anymore,” the driver said gently. “No waiting. No being forgotten first.” Ethan thought of his mom, always tired but always there. His room, messy and familiar. The way his name sounded when someone called it. “I don’t want people to forget me,” he said. The girl smiled sadly. “Neither did we.”

Ethan took a step away from the bus. The rain slowed. The driver’s shoulders sagged, just a little. “If you leave,” he said, “we’ll still be here.” Ethan looked at the kids again. They weren’t monsters. They were just waiting. “I won’t forget you,” Ethan said. The girl’s eyes filled. “We know.” Ethan turned and ran.

The road shortened with every step. Streetlights came back, one by one. The rain stopped. When he reached the familiar corner near his house, he dared to look back. The bus stop was gone. So was the bus.

The next morning, Ethan woke up with the sound of his mom calling his name. “Bus!” she shouted. “You’re going to miss it!” He sat up fast. Everything looked normal. Too normal. At school, he couldn’t stop thinking about the bus. About the kids. About the driver. At lunch, he overheard two teachers talking in hushed voices. “They reopened the old cases,” one said. “Missing kids from years ago.” “Why now?” “Someone remembered something,” the other replied. “No idea who.” Ethan’s chest warmed and ached at the same time.

That afternoon, as he waited at his regular bus stop, he felt something brush past him. A girl stood a few feet away. She looked familiar. She smiled. Just once. Then she was gone. The bus arrived. Ethan got on.