The Package

I take my usual seat on the bus and slip on my earbuds. I hate the late shift. Taking the late bus always feels so dreadful to me, even if nothing interesting happens besides the occasional drunk who tries to pick a fight with the driver.

My commute home always takes at least an hour, so my bag is always stocked with anything I might need—snacks, of course, to keep my energy up when I have to pat-and-bend it home for another three blocks after getting off the bus. I usually keep my e-reader in my bag for entertainment, but I also carry the occasional library book with me when I have time to check one out.

I notice a few familiar faces around me. The usual late-nighters and nowhere-to-goers. All despondent, distant, reserved. Everyone keeps their distance from one another, sitting rows apart in their unassigned-assigned spots.

As I watch cars rapidly pass by outside the window, my mind drifts. One day, I’ll have my own car, and taking the bus will be an ill-forgotten memory that I’ll no longer have to suffer. And all of these late-night shifts will be worth every second.

I glance at the middle-aged Hispanic woman on my right and notice the luggage that hangs heavily under her eyes, the deep wrinkles that crease her otherwise elegantly stunning features. In another world, she’d be the trophy wife of some rich entrepreneur, or even own her own business. But for now, she’s just like me—working her ass of just to provide for herself and those she loves.

People like her would be the only thing I missed about my nightly ride. The people from all walks of life all in one space. No matter the amount of money in your bank account, the position you hold at work, or the size of your home, everyone is on the same plane once they pass through those doors.

The bus slows at a stop, and my brows furrow. This isn’t one of the usual stops this bus makes, and I sigh. Even only a few minutes means so much when you only get a handful of hours to sleep before you have to get up for another quotidian shift at your second job.

I don’t look up at the person who enters, fearing my frustration would be evident to the innocent. I keep my eyes focused on the passing headlights, my chest tightening as I feel the descent of tomorrow’s exhaustion already taking hold of me.

The chair next to me rustles as a weight plants itself upon it. I grumble internally. Of all of the available rows and empty chairs, they had to sit next to me. I offer them a weak, awkward grin before reaching into my bag and pulling out the library book I was lucky enough to get my hands on.

As I get lost in the words and pages of the fantasy world, I barely notice when the person next to me disappears. At what stop? When? I can’t recall. But when my stop approaches and I gather my things, something grabs my attention.

A box, no bigger than a square tissue box, replaces the stranger. It’s wrapped in my favorite color of pale yellow with a perfectly tied white ribbon around it. I look around the bus, hoping that the stranger had just moved somewhere else, but there’s no one left—only myself, the bus driver, and the strange package on the seat. I notice a tag tucked under one of the ears of the ribbon. I know I should just hand it over to the driver, let him deal with it, but a strong, gripping force urges me to read the name.

I reach for the box, picking it up slowly and secretively, afraid I’ll get in trouble if I get caught. I flip open the tag and read the name carefully. My mouth falls open in shock, and I knit my brows.

My name.

The box has my name written on it. And not just my first name, but my whole name—not the nickname I go by, that I introduce myself as, my whole, legal, government name!

I drop the box on the floor and look around the empty bus. When the coast is definitely clear, I pick it back up off the floor, dust it off, and place it in my bag with shaky hands. Even if the right thing to do is to turn it in, I can’t—not after reading my name.

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The box sits on my kitchen table for a week before I finally gather the courage to look inside. It wouldn’t have been weird to receive a gift through the mail or in person, but on a random Tuesday night, left ominously next to me on the bus? That’s weird.

I pull out the chair and plop myself down. I take the tail of the ribbon and pull, watching it fall apart gracefully onto the table like magic. I take a shaky breath and rip apart the wrapping paper, unveiling an unmarked, brown cardboard box. I lift the lid of the box and peek into the darkness inside.

My body mixes with a myriad of emotions. I want to cry, laugh, scream, all at the same time. I reach inside and retrieve a key, a note, and the answer to all of my prayers.

I’ll never have to want for anything ever again, the consequences be damned.

©️T.L. Ryan 2025. All rights reserved.