I pulled a four-year-old bus ticket from my coat and was back on my granddaughter’s first ride. No top deck adventure, downstairs only, the steps were bad enough, and worse with a two-year-old. Rain freckles on the window, her nose to the glass, a small hand guarding the bell. The driver clocked the nerves, gave a kind nod, and we rumbled through town at pram speed. The stub goes back in the pocket, and the timetable stays in memory.
Nostalgic
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Finding an Old Ticket Stub
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A Ghost in the Algorithm
My streaming app keeps suggesting I play the same film on repeat, as if it remembers for me and won’t let the habit fade. The thumbnail lands like a nudge: the scene we always quoted, the line that once made everything feel lighter. I hover over ‘Play’, then move on. I don’t delete it; I want that doorway to stay where I can find it.