My flight was delayed, and by the time I reached the station the last train had already left. A man at the ticket desk told me there was an old night bus to the coast, so I bought a ticket and climbed on, tired and a little angry with the whole world.
The bus smelled of oranges and diesel. An old woman across the aisle was peeling one, and without a word she handed me half. Two students at the back were quietly playing a guitar, and the driver, who seemed to know every song, was singing along. By the time we left the city, I had stopped being angry.
At three in the morning we stopped at a roadside café with one bright light. Strangers shared a big pot of soup as if we had known each other for years. Then, just before dawn, the driver left the main road. "Nobody misses this on my bus," he said, and he parked on a cliff above the sea. We all stood in the cold and watched the sun rise in silence. I arrived hours late, but I never forgot that journey.