Waiting for Healing

Every evening at 6:10, the world around the old bus stop softened into gold.

Streetlights flickered awake. Wind brushed through the maple trees. And Harold,

dressed in the same brown coat he had worn for years, sat quietly on the far-left end of

the bench. He hadn’t taken the bus in a long time. Not since Clara

passed. But this is where she used to meet him after work. She would step off

Bus 14 with a grin that made the whole day feel lighter. Sometimes she brought him a pastry.

Sometimes a story. Always love. So Harold kept the routine, even after her laughter

faded from the world. Today, a young woman sat beside him, wiping tears with