Yuna stood at the bus stop waiting for her bus,eyes fixed on her phone as she tracked the approaching bus. The evening air was heavy, familiar—until a trembling voice broke through it.
An elderly woman approached, speaking anxiously to another lady at the stop. She had lost her address.
"You should go to the police station," the woman advised gently.
The old lady looked confused, her eyes darting around as others repeated the same suggestion. Then, suddenly, her gaze settled on Yuna.
"Can you take me there?" she asked.
Yuna's heart thudded. For a moment, she hesitated—caught between instinct and caution. But the woman was old, frail-looking, helpless. Yuna nodded and walked with her to the nearby police station.
Inside, a policeman stepped out of his vehicle and asked, "Amma, where are you coming from?"
The old lady scratched her head, as though trying to pull the answer from somewhere deep inside.
"I came from a long distance," she said slowly. "One of my relatives is unwell."
"Then where do you need to go?" he asked.
Her face tightened, as if the question itself pained her.
"I don't remember anything. Please… just take me to the address."
The officer sighed, clearly losing patience. Turning to Yuna, he said, "How can she say this? There are millions of people here."
The old lady interrupted softly, "My relative told me the police would take care of me."
Yuna and the officer exchanged a brief look.
"Try to remember again," Yuna urged gently.
But the answer remained the same. Again and again.
The officer asked Yuna to check the woman's bag. Yuna nodded and reached out—but the old lady immediately pulled the bag closer, clutching it tightly.
"I already checked," she said firmly. "There's no address."
The grip was strong. Too strong.
Yuna felt a chill crawl up her spine.
The officer finally suggested sending her on a bus to her native place. Yuna glanced at her phone—her bus was almost here. Her heartbeat quickened.
"Sir… can you take care of her?" she asked hesitantly. "I'm getting late."
He nodded.
As Yuna turned to leave, the old lady suddenly grabbed her hand. Her fingers dug in with unexpected force.
"Don't leave me," she cried, eyes filling with tears. "I trusted you. Don't do this."
Yuna tried to pull away—but she couldn't. The grip tightened.
Taking a shaky breath, she asked again, "Amma… where do you have to go?"
"I don't remember," the old lady said flatly.
"I don't remember," the old lady said flatly.
They stood there, trapped in the moment, until the officer told her to board a bus to her native place. Still holding Yuna's hand, the old lady murmured sadly as they walked back to the bus stop.
A bus arrived.
"Take this one," Yuna urged.
The old lady shook her head.
"I've already taken three buses. I don't know where I went… or how to go."
People at the stop began watching them closely.
Yuna's palms were soaked. Her heart skipped as another bus passed—then another. She had already missed three buses to her office.
She asked the old lady to sit. When they did, Yuna said, "Wait here. I'll call the police."
The old lady tightened her grip.
"Give me your phone," she said calmly. "You go and call the police."
Yuna stared at her.
An old woman who claimed she didn't know how to take a bus—now asking confidently for her phone.
Her fingers dug deeper into Yuna's wrist.
When the old lady finally loosened her hold, red marks bloomed across Yuna's skin—clear, unmistakable handprints.