The shuttle bus waited at the edge of the parking lot, humming softly, doors open like a yawn.
Every morning, it made the same loop: hotel to airport, airport to hotel. The same cracked seats, the same faint smell of coffee and jet fuel. But today, the bus had noticed something—an empty suitcase sitting in row three.
It had been there since yesterday. Nobody claimed it. Nobody even looked at it. The driver shrugged, said he’d deal with it later.
But the bus remembered. It remembered the woman who’d carried it aboard—red coat, tired smile, ticket clutched too tightly. It remembered how she’d whispered something to herself before stepping off at the terminal: “This time, I’ll stay.”
Now, as dawn stretched over the runway, the shuttle sighed through its vents. It knew she wasn’t coming back.
Still, it opened its doors one last time at the hotel, as if waiting—for the sound of hurried footsteps, a familiar voice, a claim tag.
When no one came, the shuttle closed its doors gently and rolled back into the light, carrying her suitcase like a secret it would never deliver.
Written for the ragtag daily prompt which was shuttle.
Therapy Bits 
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