The driver did not turn around at first.

The whole bus sat in silence, watching his hands shake on the wheel.

The blind woman leaned forward, breathing like every second was pulling her back into a graveyard.

“My son was taken from me after the fire,” she whispered. “They said he died before I could hold him again.”

The driver’s face appeared in the mirror, pale and stunned.

“What was his name?” he asked.

Her lips trembled.

“Michael.”

The driver closed his eyes.

The poor teenage boy looked from the woman to the mirror, realizing something was happening that no one on the bus understood.

The blind woman’s hand moved toward the driver’s seat.

“My boy had a small scar near his chin,” she said. “From falling near the kitchen door.”

The driver slowly turned.

The scar was there.

A soft cry left her mouth before she could stop it.

He stepped out from behind the wheel, tears running down his face.

“I was told my mother left me,” he whispered.

The blind woman shook her head, reaching for him with both hands.

“No. I searched until my eyes went dark.”

He knelt in front of her.

She touched his face with trembling fingers, found the scar, and broke.

“My son,” she whispered.

The driver pressed her hands to his face and cried like a lost child finally finding home.