John Miller had been driving a school bus in Cedar Falls for nearly fifteen years. Over time, he had grown accustomed to the daily rhythm—children laughing, swapping stories, playfully arguing over seats, and even dozing against the windows on early mornings. To him, the bus was a moving snapshot of childhood in all its noisy, carefree forms.
But that year, one passenger stood out for a very different reason.
Ten-year-old Emily Parker always boarded quietly, her head lowered, her backpack slightly too big for her frame. She chose the same spot every morning—row four, left side, pressed against the window. While most children filled the air with chatter, Emily remained silent, offering only a faint “good morning” before retreating into her thoughts.
What caught John’s attention wasn’t her quietness—it was her eyes. Nearly every morning, they were red from tears.
At first, he tried to dismiss it. Maybe Emily was shy, or maybe school was difficult for her. But when he saw her wiping away tears day after day, he knew it wasn’t just a phase. Something was wrong.
A Hidden Message
One Thursday afternoon, after finishing his route, John began his usual sweep of the bus for forgotten belongings. When he reached Emily’s seat, he found something unexpected—a folded piece of paper tucked beneath the cushion.
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