OLD MAN

He stood before me on a bus packed with tired people. He was a very old man, about eighty, by the looks of it. An old man barely clinging to life, dressed in what at first glance resembled a worn-out potato sack.

"Sit down," I said to my grandfather, reluctantly rising from my seat, having endured twelve hours of hard work. "Sit down and rest."

He looked at me strangely. His eyes were gray and as tired as he himself. They pierced you through and through. Or rather, your mind and soul. I quickly turned my head and looked at the streetlights flickering past the bus window.

"Thank you, boy," he replied politely, his voice hoarse, and he sank heavily into his seat. "It's rare for a young man to give up his seat to an old man these days. Everyone's just thinking about themselves.

" "That's how it is," I replied, pulling a crumpled newspaper from my backpack. I began to read.

But after a moment, I peered over the edge of the newspaper at the stranger. He began rummaging through his dirty bag, pulling out a stack of well-cared-for black leather books and the dirty half of an old roll. He popped it into his mouth and began to eat. I felt sorry for the old man. I pulled a piece of fresh salami bread from my backpack and held it under his nose. I spoke.

"I think this is better than a dry roll. Try it.

" "Thank you, good man." He took the piece of bread in his dirty hands and swallowed greedily. "

You're welcome. As you can see, young people can be useful for other things besides giving up their seats on the bus." I laughed and glanced at the people around them, who began to discreetly move away from us. I realized their behavior was caused by the old man's smell. The smell of urine and unwashed flesh.

After a moment, I began to observe the old man again. Well, that's my nature. I'm curious about life, what can I do? Sometimes it's useful in life. Sometimes it's not.

I began to carefully examine the books' beautiful leather bindings.

I examined their covers closely.

And I froze in horror.

My first feeling was a strong sense of unease, the kind you experience in strange situations. That happens when you don't know if what you're seeing is real or not.

I rubbed my eyes. I looked again.

People's names and surnames were written on the covers. You're probably saying, "What's so strange about that?" Nothing, really. But listen until the end.

The old man, with his dirty hands, began opening the books and leafing through the pages. I leaned over him slightly and tried to read the tiny letters. But my grandfather's fingers were quickly turning the pages, so I couldn't fully grasp their contents.

Finally, he came to the last, half-written page of one of the books.

And I noticed something that still haunts me to this day, the cause of my nightmares. I couldn't rationalize it whenever I thought back to that day.

The text on the page raced forward, filling the empty spaces on the pages. Leaning closer, my forehead almost touching the old man's, I saw the letters forming sentences, fragments of which went something like this:

As he stood on the bus, holding the metal pole with his left hand, he stared ahead and pondered something, and with the other he fiddled with the metal zipper on his jacket. Then he took it in his hand...

I leaned back a bit and wiped my sweaty forehead. These were definitely hallucinations! It must be the alcohol I'd consumed last week, or all that sitting in front of the monitor in the evenings instead of walking my dog. It's impossible. Books can't write themselves. I looked around, but every traveler was staring at the window, thinking only of themselves.

"What's that, sir?" I couldn't help myself.

"These are the books of life, young man," he replied gently, smiling at me, revealing his rotten teeth. "These books are written by life, happening here and now, in this place. Do you want to see your book?"

I stood paralyzed, unable to make even the slightest movement. I wanted to escape, but some invisible force held me in place. A moment later, I saw the old man pull a black book with my name on it from a huge bag.

"It's happening here and now, and books record the whole truth. When you stand there and stare at me like that, the book records it. When you do good deeds, it records it too. I'm a dirty, stinking old man, and I have my own book too. Before Him, we are all equal. But my book is thick, and He promised me it will never end. In return, I must obey His orders."

He opened the book. The letters stubbornly filled the blank pages. I looked at the text and couldn't believe my eyes. It read:

He leaned over the old man, unable to believe he was holding the book of his life. His right hand was gripping a metal tube. He was nervous and shaking with fear. After a moment...

The old man suddenly became serious. His gaze focused on me, burning a hole in my brain. My head ached terribly, and I felt nauseous. I fell to the floor, but no one around me reacted. The old man's voice echoed in my ears.

"You are a good man, Piotr. He doesn't forget about people like that. So I'll tear out a page and put it in your pocket, so you can see it and reconsider your entire life and what had happened here." He

tore out the page and tucked it into my jacket.

I stood up and quickly walked away from the old man. I pushed through the crowded bus toward the exit, away from the madman who was sitting there laughing like a maniac. I felt my heart trying to break free from my body.

And suddenly I felt a powerful jolt. Terrified people began screaming, and I was thrown forward. I felt the bus shift from horizontal to vertical. A woman fell on me, and together we fell through the windshield.

I lost consciousness.

I woke up in the hospital, and my entire family was leaning over me. God, what luck, I'm alive! But what happened, what happened? How is it possible that I survived? What damned luck! But how? How?

I tried to get up.

"Lie down, Piotr, you're very weak," I heard.

"You're really lucky you're okay," someone else said.

"What... what happened?" I croaked.

"The bus skidded and fell off a bridge. All the passengers died." You were really lucky. But for now, rest. Rest.

"Nothing but to thank God for what happened," I heard.

I tried to gather my thoughts and remember everything. Work, the bus, the newspaper, Grandpa... Yes, Grandpa! That old man in the dirty coat and books! What happened to him? What happened to him? Wait a minute... he left me a note! A note!

"A note, I need a note," I said with difficulty. "Grandpa left me a note!"

"Calm down, Piotruś...

" "He's in shock..."

"You mean this?" I noticed my sister pulling something out of her purse. "It was next to you. The police returned it to us. They're a bit interested.

She held the note up to me. It was stained with blood. It read:

He hit his head on the windshield of the bus and felt intense pain. Then he fell out the window and died, crushed by the bus. End of transcript.

So it really happened. It really happened...

I lay there and for a long time I couldn't thank God for what had happened.