Spring of 1969. The day you chose to take the bus began like any other, with an impatient wait at the dusty stop, basking in the warmth of the spring sun. The air was thick with the scent of fresh grass, sand, and something a little less pleasant—an unmistakable stench of beer, carelessly spilled by someone nearby.

But then, the long-anticipated bus finally appeared, and as it screeched to a halt before you, the familiar smell of the city was replaced by the overpowering, rancid odor of a full, early-morning bus. A cauldron of conflicting scents: a mixture of heavy perfumes, stale sweat, and the pungent aroma of dirt. It was the unmistakable stench of a crowded, well-worn bus. Yet, luck was on your side—there were a few empty seats, offering you the chance to rest your tired legs for the ride instead of standing.

You sank into the nearest seat, oblivious to the elderly woman beside you. She was plump, dressed in a faded floral dress, with a gray bun of hair twisted on her head. On her lap rested two mesh bags filled with groceries, and beside her was a battered handbag, clearly showing the marks of time. She gave you a hard, scrutinizing stare, her furrowed brow indicating that she was either studying you or silently judging you for something you hadn’t even done yet.