I drive the number 7 bus. Fridays are always quiet — most folks are locked up by then, visiting hours ended.
The depot smells of diesel and old coffee. There's a corkboard by the break room door, covered in expired coupons no one ever takes down.
I saw the janitor squatting behind the vending machine. He pulled out a single playing card, smudged but clean.
It was the queen of hearts. The one I'd given my grandmother when I was ten, the one she kept in her purse for luck.
She used to host a card-game circle every Thursday. Canasta with the neighbors, dollar ante, loud laughter. I'd sit on the floor and watch her hands.
When she died, I thought that card was gone. I'd searched her things twice. Everyone else had looked past it — wedged between the machine and the wall.
The janitor handed it to me without a word. He didn't know what it was. But his hands were gentle, like he understood it mattered.
I haven't cried over her in twenty years. I did then, right there in the depot, holding a queen of hearts.