My name’s Frank. I’m 74. Used to drive Greyhound buses for almost forty years. I don’t drive anymore—doctor says my knees are shot and my eyesight’s worse. My wife passed five years back. No kids. No real reason to keep moving.

But every Wednesday, I find myself at the Greyhound station downtown. Not to go anywhere. I just sit on the same bench by the ticket counter with a thermos of coffee, watching people come and go. Travelers, tired workers, kids heading back to college. Feels like I’m still part of the road, in some way.

One Wednesday last winter, I saw a young mom with a boy, maybe five years old. She was at the counter, counting coins in her palm. Her hands were shaking. I could hear the clerk tell her, “Sorry, it’s not enough for two.” The boy tugged her sleeve, eyes wide. My chest hurt watching it.

I reached into my coat pocket. I had a ticket I’d bought earlier—out of habit, really. I walked over, slid it across the counter. “Buses run better with full seats,” I said. She stared at me like I was crazy. Then her eyes filled with tears. “Thank you,” she whispered.

The bus pulled away, her boy waving at me through the foggy glass. I figured that was that. Just one Wednesday, one ride.

But the next week, I bought another ticket. Kept it folded in my wallet. Just in case.

And wouldn’t you know it—there was a young man at the counter, trying to get to an interview two towns over. Short on cash. Same story. I gave him the ticket. He grinned, shook my hand so hard my shoulder ached for a week.

It became a ritual. Every Wednesday, I’d buy a ticket. Sometimes it was used. Sometimes it wasn’t. Didn’t matter. Just knowing I had it felt right.

The staff started noticing. “You’re the ticket man,” one of them teased. They stopped charging me for coffee. One even slipped me an envelope once. “For your fund,” she said. Inside were a few crumpled bills. Word had gotten around.

Soon, I wasn’t the only one. Travelers began leaving prepaid tickets at the desk. The clerks put them on a corkboard with a sign: “Need a ride? Take one. Want to help? Leave one.” They called it the Travelers’ Wall.

One afternoon, a man came up to me in the waiting area. Middle-aged, tired eyes. He held up a ticket. “This got me to my brother’s funeral last month,” he said. “I don’t know who paid for it, but… thank you.” He hugged me before I could say a word.

Another time, a teenage girl sat beside me. Said she was the first in her family to go to college. Her ride to orientation? Paid for by one of those tickets. She showed me her student ID like it was gold.

Last week, I got a call from my daughter, Sarah. We don’t talk much. Years of distance. She sounded soft on the phone. “Dad,” she said, “I saw the news story. The one about the Greyhound station wall. They said it started with you.” Her voice cracked. “I’m proud of you.”

I didn’t know what to say. Just sat there in my little kitchen, ticket stubs scattered on the counter, trying not to cry.

I never built a charity. Never started a foundation. I just bought a ticket once a week. One little piece of paper that opened a door for someone else.

Turns out, that’s enough.

Maybe kindness isn’t about fixing the world. Maybe it’s just about keeping a seat open, a door unlocked, a bus waiting a little longer.

If you ever find yourself at a station, or anywhere really—maybe carry a little “ticket” of your own. Doesn’t have to be paper. Could be a smile. A meal. A seat at your table.

Because you never know who’s standing at the counter, just a few coins short of hope.