The Girl from the Bus
After that summer wedding, the colors faded, the music died down, and life in the village returned to its quiet rhythm.But for Ji-Ho, one memory refused to fade — the girl with the laddu.
Sometimes, when the smell of fried sweets drifted through the evening air or a jasmine garland swung in the temple breeze, he would think of her — that tiny, serious face, those bright eyes, and the moment that ended too soon.
He didn't know her name, or where she lived. Maybe she was from the town. Maybe she'd only come for the wedding.He didn't know that she lived in the same village, not far away, across the narrow stream and the line of palm trees.
Ji-Ho lived in a small, tiled house with his father and grandmother.His older brother, Min-Ho, had gone to study in a city school years ago and stayed in the hostel ever since. Ji-Ho missed him deeply — especially at night, when the house grew too quiet.
His mother had passed away when he was only three. He didn't remember her face clearly, only soft fragments — the warmth of her lap, the scent of rice powder, the sound of her humming.Since then, his grandmother had become the heart of the house. Every morning, before the sun rose, she would light the lamp, sweep the floor, and cook rice and lentils for breakfast. She was the one who tied Ji-Ho's shoelaces, packed his tiffin, and waited for him at the door every afternoon.
His father, meanwhile, was a stern man. He worked at the local office and rarely smiled. He never shouted much, but his silence carried more weight than anger ever could.He loved Ji-Ho — but in a quiet, hidden way. His love showed through actions, not words: a repaired schoolbag, a plate of cut fruit left on the table, or the way he waited on the porch until Ji-Ho came home.
But to Ji-Ho, it never felt like love. It felt like distance — like there was an invisible wall between them that neither knew how to climb.
School in the village was simple and small. The walls were cracked, the benches old, and the blackboard always dusty. Ji-Ho studied hard, but most days passed in silence.
Then, one evening, his father came home with a letter in his hand.
"You'll be going to the town school from next week," he said, not looking up from the paper.Ji-Ho blinked. "Town school?"His grandmother turned from the stove. "A big school, with a bus," she said gently. "You'll learn more there."
Ji-Ho nodded, unsure whether to feel excited or scared.
The following Monday, the yellow bus stopped near the banyan tree for the first time. The driver called out his name, and Ji-Ho climbed aboard, his uniform neatly pressed, his lunchbox still warm in his bag.
The bus smelled of polish and chalk. Older students talked and laughed loudly while younger ones stared out the windows. Ji-Ho sat near the middle, quietly watching the fields pass by — the same paths he used to walk every morning now flashing past like memories.
Halfway through the journey, the bus stopped near a small lane shaded by mango trees.
A girl climbed in.She wore a crisp blue uniform and carried a pink water bottle. Her hair was tied in two ponytails, but a few strands escaped and danced in the breeze.
Ji-Ho glanced at her — just once — and something strange tugged inside him.She looked familiar. The way her eyes scanned the bus, the calm way she walked to her seat — it reminded him of someone. But he couldn't remember who.
The bus rolled on, and he tried to focus on the passing scenery, but her face stayed in his mind like an echo.
When they reached the town, all the children poured into the big blue building that smelled of chalk and wet shoes. Ji-Ho followed a teacher through the corridors until they reached Class 2-B.
The teacher smiled kindly. "Everyone, this is Ji-Ho, our new student."
"Good morning," he said softly.
"Welcome," the teacher said. "You can sit in the second row, next to Thanu."
Ji-Ho turned — and froze.
It was her.
The same curious eyes.The same dark, untamed hair that escaped her ribbons.The same calm, serious expression from that day at the wedding.
Thanu looked up at him — not surprised, not confused, just quietly steady. For a moment, the sound of the classroom faded, and Ji-Ho felt that same warmth in his chest again — the feeling of something half-remembered and strangely sweet.
He sat down beside her.Neither spoke. But between them, in that silent space, something familiar returned — like the scent of sugar in the air.
The bell rang, and the lesson began.Ji-Ho tried to listen, but his thoughts drifted elsewhere.
The girl who had once stolen his laddu was now sitting right beside him.