The Last Bus

I've been driving the night bus for three years. Every night, the last trip passes a small station in the mountains. Strangely, that bus stop has long been abandoned, yet an old man always stands there waiting for the bus. Every time I stop, he asks, "Can you take me home today?" I thought he was old and forgetful, so I let him on. Tonight, the old man appeared again. Halfway through the journey, he suddenly asked me, "Do you remember the rain that day?" I didn't answer. He continued, "It was raining just as heavily that day. You said if we drove a little faster, we could catch the last ferry." I frowned, "You've mistaken me for someone else." The old man took a yellowed newspaper from his pocket and placed it beside me. The article read: Ten years ago, a bus lost control on a mountain road and plunged into a valley, killing the driver and all passengers. The driver in the photo was me. I slammed on the brakes, but there was no sound from the cabin. I looked back at the old man, and he was gone. The rain outside grew heavier, and the road sign ahead read "Terminus." I opened the bus door and found a whole line of passengers standing outside. Their clothes were soaked, their faces covered in scars, and they were getting on the bus one by one. As the last person passed me, they whispered: "Driver, don't drive so fast this time." I looked down at my hands, covered in dried blood. Then I remembered: Ten years ago that night, I was speeding to make up time, crashed through the guardrail, and took everyone on the bus down the mountain into the valley. And the last bus I repeat every night never truly reaches its destination.