“Grandma…” he said quietly. “I’m sorry. Back then… I was wrong.”
She lifted her eyes to him.
And then… she smiled softly. No anger. No reproach.
“Life, sonny, teaches all of us something. The important thing is to listen.
And you — you listened.”
He helped her onto the bus and seated her in the front. Along the way, he offered her some tea.
They rode in silence. But it was a different kind of silence — warm, gentle. It seemed to ease both their hearts.
From then on, he always carried some extra tokens in his pocket — for those who couldn’t afford a ticket. Especially for grandmothers. Every morning before starting his shift, he would recall her words.
They became not just a reminder of his guilt, but a lesson — to be human. Spring came suddenly. The snow melted quickly, and soon bouquets of snowdrops appeared at the bus stops — grandmothers selling them, three flowers wrapped in cellophane.
He started recognizing their faces, greeting them, helping them onto the bus. Sometimes, he just smiled — and saw how much it meant to them.
However he never saw that particular grandmother again.
He looked for her every day.
Asked around, described her. Someone said she might have lived near the cemetery, beyond the bridge. He even went there some times on his day off — without his uniform, without the bus.
Just walking. Searching. And one day, he found a modest wooden cross with a photograph in an oval frame.
Those same eyes. 
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