Manuel García never imagined that, at sixty-two, after retiring as a mechanic in a garage in Vallecas, he would end up driving a school bus along the quiet backroads of a town on the outskirts of Seville.
The job provided him with a much-needed routine after his wife’s passing, and most days passed uneventfully amidst children’s laughter and shouts.
However, two weeks into the school year, Manuel noticed a new passenger: Lucía, a shy, always solitary fourteen-year-old girl, who sat right behind him.
At first, Manuel thought it was simply her adjusting to a new school. But he soon observed a disturbing pattern.
Every afternoon, as the bus emptied, Lucía would cry silently, frantically wiping away her tears before reaching her stop.
Manuel, his paternal instincts heightened, tried to talk to her: “Had a tough day, honey?” he would ask, glancing in the rearview mirror.
