Idan felt the phone tremble slightly in his hand.
“Shira,” he said, his voice breaking with excitement. “I got the job.”
Four simple words. But behind them lay a long and difficult road.
Not so long ago, he had a whole life in southern Israel—a home of his own, steady work, and the quiet comfort of an ordinary routine. Then came October 7, 2023, and everything changed. Their home was destroyed, and he and Shira were forced to flee to Jerusalem with their two sons.
In a single morning, everything Idan had built, brick by brick, since his twenties came crashing down.
And yet he refused to let himself break. Shira and the boys were alive. They had survived. For that, he gave thanks every single day. He took whatever work he could find, determined to provide for his family with dignity.
Not long before, his old friend Yossi had come to visit. He mentioned that Electra Afikim was looking for bus drivers and encouraged Idan to apply.
And now, here he was, sharing the joyful news of his new job with his wife, Shira.
And so Idan prepared for his first day behind the wheel.
From morning until afternoon, he worked making deliveries. In the evenings, he drove a bus from Jerusalem all the way to Mitzpe Yericho.
Every passenger who stepped aboard greeted him with a smile.
“Hello.”
“Good evening.”
And when they got off, there was almost always a kind word.
“Thank you.”
“Good night.”
“Have a lovely evening.”
“Hope the rest of your shift goes smoothly.”
Those small gestures warmed his heart, night after night.
After completing the final journey, he would return home to Shira’s welcoming smile. His two boys would come running toward him as though they hadn't seen their father in days.
Little by little, Idan settled into his new life. The days passed, the work grew familiar, and soon he felt almost at home behind the wheel.
But ever since he had started driving that route, there was one thing that never failed to stir his curiosity.
An old man.
Every evening, shortly before the last departure, Idan would see him sitting alone on a bench near the Givat HaTahmoshet light rail station in Jerusalem.
His hands rested one over the other on the handle of his cane, and his gaze wandered somewhere far away, toward a place only he knew.
Whenever the bus pulled up and the doors opened, the old man would slowly rise, climb aboard without a word, and settle into the same seat—the first one, beside the door.
Sometimes students from a military boarding school boarded alongside him. Other evenings, there were yeshiva students or men returning home to their families after a long day at work.
But there was something Idan simply couldn't understand.
That old man…
He always took the last bus.
At first, Idan wondered, Does a man his age still work so late?
The following evening, he saw him again.
Perhaps he's waiting for someone…?
But he immediately shook his head.
No… that can't be. He's here every single evening.
And so the days went by.
Each time the old man boarded, Idan felt the same curiosity rising within him. Yet he never quite found the courage to start a conversation.
Until one night.
As he prepared to leave Jerusalem on his final journey, the old man appeared as usual and took his familiar seat.
Behind him came two young men who looked like yeshiva students, a young woman accompanying them, and finally a cheerful-looking Asian woman carrying an iPad.
This time, Idan decided to be brave.
“Oh… taking the bus again tonight?” he asked with a smile. “I've become so used to seeing you here every evening. To tell you the truth, it almost feels as though my last trip doesn't begin until I see you get on.”
The old man smiled.
Idan scratched the back of his neck, suddenly embarrassed.
“Do you still work? Sorry for asking… It's just that I see you here every night, and I've been wondering…”
The old man answered with a warm smile. If anything, he seemed pleased that someone had finally stopped to speak with him.
And then he began to tell his story.
He was originally from Be'er Sheva. A few months earlier, he had lost his wife, and since then he had been living with his eldest son in Mitzpe Yericho.
He and his wife had known each other since childhood. Over the years, their friendship had blossomed into love, and love had led them to marriage.
For fifty-seven years, they had walked through life side by side.
They had raised five children, shared countless ordinary and extraordinary moments, and built an entire lifetime together.
And then, one day…
She was gone.
“Losing someone you've shared your whole life with,” the old man said quietly, “is the hardest blow a person can ever suffer.”
As he listened, Idan glanced into the rearview mirror.
To his surprise, the woman with the iPad had moved to the seat directly behind him. She was listening to the old man's words with complete attention.
For a moment, Idan wondered about her. But the old man's voice drew him back, and the thought slipped away.
His wife had been buried in a cemetery in Be'er Sheva.
Since her death, he had left his son's home every morning to visit her.
He rose early, traveled to Jerusalem, and bought the flowers she had loved more than anything. From there, he continued to Be'er Sheva.
At the cemetery, he placed the flowers beside her grave, sat down next to her, and spent the entire day in her company.
In the evening, he returned to Jerusalem and boarded the last bus to Mitzpe Yericho.
For a moment, the old man fell silent.
A gentle smile touched his lips.
“Every evening, before we went to sleep, I would kiss her forehead and say, ‘See you tomorrow.’
“That was how I said good night to her for fifty-seven years.”
He paused.
“So even now, I go to see her every day, just so I can tell her once more, ‘See you tomorrow.’
“Until I take my last breath…
“My body isn't what it used to be, either. I suppose it won't be much longer now…
“And then I'll be beside her again.
“This time…
“Forever.”
Tears shimmered in the old man's eyes like tiny lights in the darkness.
Idan could find no words.
By then, the bus had already begun its journey toward Mitzpe Yericho. The passengers seated nearby listened without making a sound.
Only the engine hummed softly as the night carried them onward, toward the desert.
When the bus reached Mitzpe Yericho and the old man rose to leave, the woman with the iPad stood up and approached him.
“Excuse me…”
He turned toward her.
“May I ask your name?”
After he answered, she smiled.
“My name is Bayasa. I'm a writer.”
She hesitated for a moment, as though searching for the right words.
“I've never heard a story quite like yours. It's truly beautiful.”
The old man smiled shyly and thanked her.
Then the two stepped off the bus together and began walking in the same direction.
Idan watched until they disappeared from sight.
Only then did he close the doors and begin his journey back to Jerusalem.
From that evening onward, the old man became an inseparable part of Idan's final trip.
Almost every night, they would exchange a few words. Sometimes they talked about the weather, sometimes about life, and sometimes they simply smiled at each other without saying anything at all.
People say that everyone who crosses our path comes into our lives for a reason.
Perhaps their meeting hadn't been a coincidence, either.
The days passed, and the last journey of the evening no longer felt like just another shift to Idan.
It had become a small moment he looked forward to every night.
And then…
One evening, when he arrived at the stop near Givat HaTahmoshet in Jerusalem, the old man wasn't there.
Idan looked around.
Perhaps he's simply running late?
Several passengers climbed aboard and took their seats.
But the old man wasn't among them.
Maybe he's fallen ill…
Maybe something has happened to him…
All right, Idan thought. I'll wait a little longer.
He waited several more minutes.
Still, the old man did not appear.
With a heavy heart and his head lowered, Idan closed the doors.
And then, at that very moment, came a gentle knock against the glass.
Idan looked up.
There stood the old man, smiling.
And beside him…
The same Asian writer he had seen on the bus some time before.
At the sight of the old man's smile, Idan nearly burst into tears.
He hurried to open the doors.
The two climbed aboard and took their seats, and the bus set off into the night.
The old man introduced them.
“This is Bayasa. I've told you about her.”
Bayasa smiled at Idan.
“I wanted to write his story.”
She glanced affectionately at the old man.
“At first, he refused. He told me, ‘There is nothing special about my story, my child.’”
The old man smiled bashfully and shook his head.
Bayasa continued.
“But later he changed his mind. We spent the whole day together in Be'er Sheva. He showed me the places that were meaningful to them, told me about his wife, and shared so many memories from their life together.”
She gave a little laugh.
“We almost missed the last bus.”
Idan smiled.
Then Bayasa turned toward him again.
“May I ask your name?”
“Idan,” he replied.
She nodded with a smile.
“Thank you, Idan.”
For a moment, she fell silent.
Then she said,
“You are part of this story too.”
She opened the iPad in her hands.
“Would you tell me about yourself?”
Idan smiled.
They talked, and sometimes they laughed.
And the lights of the last bus cut through the night as it made its way toward Mitzpe Yericho.
And somewhere inside, between the lights of the city and the darkness of the desert…
A new story began.
By Bayasa.D