Danny sat back against the driver’s seat, the bird in his palm.
So that’s what Grandpa was doing, that one evening when he said, “Go inside and wash up — I’ll lock up here.” That’s why he stayed behind on the bus, alone.
Danny blinked hard. He hadn’t cried in years — not since the funeral. He didn’t even cry then. But now… now it came like rust shaken loose after years of stillness.
He stayed in town that night. Booked a room at the only inn still operating in downtown Franklin. Same flickering “VACANCY” sign from thirty years ago. The girl at the desk couldn’t have been more than twenty — nose ring, purple streak in her hair. She didn’t look up once from her screen.
But when Danny mentioned “Route 3,” she paused.
“You mean the old yellow bus behind the Carsons’ property?” she asked.
“That’s the one.”
She smiled. “I used to play on that bus when I was little. My grandma lived next door. Thought it was haunted.” She glanced up. “Kinda glad no one ever scrapped it.”
Danny nodded. “Yeah. Me too.”
The next morning, he drove back early. Fog still hung over the grass. He parked near the shed and walked around the bus slowly, palms brushing the flaking paint like he was reading Braille.
He stopped at the rear bumper. Something was off.
There, wedged under the rusted step, was a second wooden carving. This time, a dog — ears too big, tail curved like it was mid-wag. Same worn wood. Same hand.
“For Tommy. 1984.”
Danny let out a breath. His dad. Grandpa had made one for him, too.
He stepped back and looked at the bus — really looked at it — for the first time in years. It wasn’t a vehicle anymore. It was a time capsule. A message board. A journal in metal and glass.
He didn’t want to leave it behind.
And that’s when the idea started to form.
That night, over dinner, Danny called his wife.
“I want to bring the bus home,” he said.
A pause. Then, “Home? Like… to our driveway? In the suburbs?”
“No,” he said. “To the school.”
“You mean your school?”
He nodded, even though she couldn’t see him. “I want to restore it. With the kids. Like Grandpa did with me.”
She was quiet a long time.
“You think they’ll go for it?” she finally asked.
Danny looked at the little bird on the motel nightstand.
“They need something real,” he said. “They need to build something that doesn’t live behind a screen.”
By the end of the week, he had permission from the principal. The district agreed to let him haul the bus onto school property. “As long as it doesn’t become a liability,” the facilities guy muttered. Danny just smiled.
A flatbed came on Saturday. The driver shook his head. “You sure you want this old beast?”
Danny grinned. “She still runs.”
They winched her up slow. The tires squealed like they remembered the road. Danny followed in his truck, watching the yellow roof bob gently down the highway, like a ship returning to harbor.
Behind his seat, tucked in a shoebox, were two carved figures — the bird and the dog — wrapped in cloth.
