Enduring Aella

Episode Eight | The Last Bus Ride

I was five the last time I rode a bus. It was Reconstruction Day—my favorite holiday as a child—and the city fired up its decommissioned buses. The mammoth antiques rolled up and down Main Street all day, back and forth, thick clouds of exhaust trailing like signal fires. Intended to ferry people to and from the festival, they became an attraction on their own, costing the city a fortune in gasoline. 

For me, the bus ride was more exciting than the festival itself, and I must have made the trip at least ten times. Which was surprising because I loved Reconstruction day. It was the one day of the year the city came together to celebrate—to forget all of our troubles—or at the very least, pretend to. We gathered to honor our country's resilience, its strength to carry on. 

It was a bandage, of course—like putting a fresh coat of paint on a wall bound to crumble. After decades of relentless hurricanes, wildfires, and earthquakes, our society had become stagnant, caught in a constant cycle of rebuild and repair. We needed change. We needed innovation. We needed growth. But we settled for parades, street food, and bus rides. 

My parents were still together then, and I spent the day sitting happily between them, swinging my legs beneath the vinyl seat. I was too small to see out the window, but I giggled and clapped as we bumped and swayed over uneven roads. The streets were neglected from years of disuse, but I reveled in each dip and rise. It felt like a carnival ride, an adventure, but for my parents, it was something else: a reminder of what they'd lost—and all they stood to lose.

This ride was different. For one, I could see out of the window, and watched in awe as the dense cityscape gave way to sprawling farmland. Rows of corn and wheat stretched in regimented lines, broken by patches of soy and waterlogged fields of rice. Every inch of land was harnessed, cultivated to feed the city's endless appetite. But it was also beautiful. The open sky stretched out, clear and blue, untouched by the city skyline. It might have been another planet—a glimpse of something that, until now, had only existed in my imagination.

I'd traveled often with my mother, but we'd always taken the Underground—the subway system connecting the dense urban strip between San Antonio and Chicago. This "Great City," as everyone called it, was an unbroken mass of concrete and steel, stretching from north to south and housing over 350 million people. The Great City was both sanctuary and prison, and few of us ever left its borders. We couldn't, really. Resources were simply too scarce, barely enough to maintain the Underground's tenuous lifeline. Even if you could afford a car, finding gas was nearly impossible.

Now, as we moved further from the city, the change felt unsettling—an expanse of emptiness I'd only heard about but never seen. We passed scattered patches of scraggly brush and bare soil, a landscape that seemed to shrink and wither under the weight of neglect. It was forgotten ground—land deemed too costly to save after countless storms, abandoned to desolation while the cities scrambled to rebuild. Watching from the window, I couldn't help but feel the weight of it too—the emptiness, the waste. It clung to me like a shadow, a reminder of what I'd lost. I mourned right along with it.

For a moment, I let myself feel it all. I was as it was—alone—exploited, used up, and forgotten.

I lay my head against the window, letting the hours blur together. We traveled for miles and miles, rattling over the rough terrain. I felt myself drift off, no doubt snoring along with Harold beside me. Gradually, a quiet murmur of excitement built and spread through the passengers. I sat up, and a thrill ran through me. Up ahead, patches of green on the horizon. It was hazy at first, then sharpened as we drew closer. 

When the first trees came into view—a dark line breaking the desolation—my breath caught along with theirs. We pressed our faces to the windows, desperate to be as close as possible. Some cried, their tears soft and unchecked, as though they'd stumbled upon a miracle. 

This was a new wonder. A longing. A deep pull, aching, as if I were reaching for something lost. Something forgotten. A hush fell over the passengers, reverent and breathless, as the first trees came into view—a few scattered pines rising from the barren soil. The clusters thickened, growing into a dense forest that enveloped us completely. Before long, the bus glided through a tunnel of green, the branches arching above us like the vaulted ceiling of a cathedral.

Although he agreed to pull the bus over, our pleas to step outside were met with a firm shake of the driver's head. Disappointed murmurs rippled through the bus, as we sat beneath the towering pines. Without a word, he began passing out sandwiches. A quiet acceptance settled over us as we ate, the air heavy with something unspoken—a shared longing for the gift we'd glimpsed but could never touch.

The bus pulled away from the forest slowly, reluctantly. Even the driver felt the pull, understood we were leaving something rare and unspoiled behind. We settled back into our seats, casting lingering glances over our shoulders as the trees faded from view. Silence held us, stretching through the miles as we returned to the open road.

We reached the coast at dusk, the neon lights of the seaside town just flickering to life. Low buildings hugged the two-laned street, cozy and compact. Here, they used solar generators to light their streetlamps and flashing signs, their colors spilling into the twilight like ink on water. Along the boardwalk, the ocean lapped dark and endless, beckoning pedestrians to abandon the streets to wander along the shore.

It looked timeless, perfect, but this was a false town. Its buildings were made of canvas and plywood, and its people nomadic. It was well known that a fine life could be had by the sea, but no shore was safe for long. At the first sign of troubled weather, the entire town would pack up and move inland until it was safe to return. When the storm passed, they would rebuild, profit from the tempestuous waters, and bide their time until they ran again. 

Beyond the town, the Tower loomed on the horizon—fortified and resilient. It stood as the lone permanent structure, built to withstand even the most vicious storm. As we drew closer, it rose like a dirty finger scratching at the moon, an unwelcome blemish in the night sky. I wanted to shoo it away, to keep the heavens free of its grubby, modern grasp.

I'd had my fill of skylines and city streets; I longed for Aella and its organic beauty—a world free of metal, machines, and broken promises.