I’VE BEEN A SCHOOL BUS DRIVER FOR 26 YEARS. EVERY SEPTEMBER, ONE BOY GETS ON MY BUS WITH A LUNCHBOX FOR SOMEONE WHO DOESN’T EXIST. I’ve driven the same school bus route outside Leeds for 26 years. I know which parents wave from their windows, which children pretend to be asleep, and which houses have dogs that chase the bus every morning. But there’s one thing I’ve never been able to explain. Every September, on the first Monday of the school year, a boy named Oliver gets on my bus at the same stop. He’s always wearing a green sweater, carrying a brown lunchbox, and sitting in the fourth row on the left. And every year, he asks me the same question. “Mr. Harris, do you think Daniel will come to school today?” For years, I assumed Daniel was his younger brother. I’d smile and say, “Maybe tomorrow, lad.” Oliver would nod, open his lunchbox, and spend the entire journey staring at the empty seat beside him. The strange part? No child named Daniel had ever appeared on my passenger list. Not once. I mentioned it to the school secretary three years ago. She checked the records and told me there was no Oliver either. I laughed, thinking she was winding me up. Then she showed me the school register. There was no Oliver. No Daniel. Not even a student with the surname Oliver had given me. I decided to ask the boy directly. The following September, he climbed aboard as usual. “Morning, Oliver.” “Morning, Mr. Harris.” “Who exactly is Daniel?” For the first time in six years, Oliver stopped smiling. “He's my best friend.” “Where does he live?” Oliver pointed toward an abandoned house near the old railway bridge. “He lives there with his mum.” I knew that house. It had been empty for decades. The windows were boarded up, the garden swallowed by weeds, and the front door had been chained shut since a fire destroyed part of the building in 1999. I didn't sleep well that night. The next morning, Oliver was waiting at the bus stop. But this time, he wasn't alone. A second boy stood beside him. He wore a red jacket and carried a schoolbag with one broken strap. I opened the doors. “Morning, lads.” Oliver climbed aboard. The other boy stayed where he was. “Daniel,” Oliver called, “come on. We're going to be late.” Daniel looked at me. Then he asked a question that made my hands tighten around the steering wheel. “Mr. Harris, do you still remember the fire?” I felt my stomach drop. I had been driving this route in 1999. I remembered the fire brigade, the smoke rising above the railway bridge, and the little boy who had been reported missing that night. I remembered because I'd been the last person to see him alive. I had stopped my bus near that house when I heard someone screaming. A woman stood in the upstairs window, shouting for help. I called the emergency services, then ran toward the house. But the flames spread too quickly. I never forgot the sound of a child crying from behind the upstairs window.