Weird man on the bus

Years ago, I used to take the same bus home every evening, always sitting in the back. One day, a friendly but distant man sat next to me. We chatted about random things briefly—nothing special. As I neared my stop, he looked at me and said, “We’ll meet again, but next time, things will be different.” I just smiled, thinking it was a strange thing to say.

He wasn’t on the bus the next day and I never saw him again. Weeks later, I found him in old family photos with my grandmother. There he was—a younger version of the man from the bus, standing next to my grandmother in an old picture.

Shocked, I asked her who he was. She looked at the photo and said with a sad smile, “That’s your grandfather. He passed away when you were just a baby.” I couldn’t believe it—the man I had talked to on the bus was my grandfather, someone who had died long before I could remember him. To this day, I still ride that same bus sometimes, wondering if I’ll ever see him again, just like he said.