The bus smelled exactly the same.
Cheap vinyl seats, someone's forgotten gym bag, the sharp tang of a half-eaten orange rolling on the floor. It rattled down roads she hadn't seen in forty years — not like this, anyway. The trees were younger. The houses hadn't grown fences yet.
She sat by the window, just like she always had. Left side, fourth row.
The boy beside her chewed gum too loudly. The girl in front of her hummed the same tune over and over again.
It was irritating — but comforting.
Like being annoyed by a ghost.
Maggie didn't speak.
She didn't need to.
Her younger self's body did all the work — smiling when someone waved, mumbling a hello to the driver.
She just… rode along.
When the bus doors opened, the building came into view.
Cedar Hill High.
Unchanged. A little cleaner, maybe. The bricks hadn't cracked yet. The tree out front still had all its limbs.
Students poured in. Loud, laughing, so alive. Maggie walked among them like a shadow that had forgotten how to cast light.
The inside was worse.
Lockers slamming. Sneakers squeaking.
Posters on the walls with glittered fonts that read: "Last Day! You Did It!"
"Graduation Ceremony – 4PM Sharp!"
She passed them slowly, reading every word like scripture.
And then she heard it.
"Maggie!"
She turned before she could stop herself.
There she was.
Rosie Mitchell.
The same wild curls, pinned back with mismatched clips. Freckles across her nose. Her laugh like a skipped rock on a lake — fast and full of mischief.
She ran up, looping her arm around Maggie's like she always did.
"Can you believe it? Last day! God, we made it." Maggie stared at her. Words clogged her throat.
She remembered Rosie — in the now, Rosie had gone quiet. Her husband had died. Her daughter had stopped calling. At the reunion, she barely spoke above a whisper.
But here — here, she was alive.
Still her.
"You okay?" Rosie asked, tilting her head. "You look like you saw a ghost."
Maggie wanted to say:
You have no idea.
She wanted to hug her, hold her, tell her she was sorry for the fight they'd have later today — the one that would end everything between them.
But she just smiled, the way her seventeen-year-old self would have.
"Just… tired," she said. "Didn't sleep much."
Rosie grinned. "Well, don't fall asleep in homeroom or Mr. Monroe will put Shakespeare quotes on your forehead again."
They walked together.
Arm in arm.
The bell rang.
Once. Loud. Final.
Maggie's heart skipped a beat.
The day had begun.