The little bus was finally empty. Arthur watched them all leave, the ghosts and goblins, the superheroes and princesses, each one spilling out into the chilly night toward warm, lit houses. He guided the bus into the gravel lot behind the town’s public works building and cut the engine. Silence, blessed and deep, settled around him.

That’s when he smelled it. Not fallen leaves or damp autumn air, but the sharp, unmistakable tang of woodsmoke. It wasn’t outside. It was inside the bus, clinging to the seats.

He was about to dismiss it when a small movement in the wide rearview mirror caught his eye.

A figure, small and still, sat in the very last row. A child wearing a cheap, plastic space ranger costume, the kind with a dark, mirrored visor.

Arthur’s heart stuttered.

He hadn’t seen that kind of costume in decades. The new ones were all sleek and molded, based on whatever blockbuster had just come out. But this one, this was old. Faded, scuffed, and familiar in a way that made his stomach twist.

“Son?” Arthur called, his voice echoing in the hollow cabin. “The route’s over. You missed your stop.”

The boy’s helmeted head tilted up. “I need to go home,” he said softly.

Arthur exhaled, weary but kind. “Alright, where’s home? I’ll call your folks.”

“The corner of Willow and Tenth.”

The words hit Arthur’s chest like a stone. Willow and Tenth.

His old block.

He couldn’t just leave the kid. With a sigh that felt heavier than it should, he fired up the engine again and eased out of the lot.

“I’ll take you,” he said quietly.

The silence in the bus felt heavy, almost listening. To fill it, Arthur started to talk, his eyes on the road, his voice warm but distant.

“You know, I’ve always loved Halloween on this route,” he said. “Thirty years I’ve been driving it. I remember the Miller twins, must be fifteen years ago, they went as a two-headed dragon. And little Sarah Higgins, she painted a cardboard box and went as a television…”

He chuckled softly, weaving stories of laughter and overflowing candy bags. The kind of memories that only existed in small towns and fading photo albums.

The boy didn’t answer.

They turned onto Willow Street. The houses here were older. The trees taller. The air thicker.

“This next block always had the best decorations,” Arthur murmured. “Old Man Henderson used to rig up ghosts that flew from his oak tree…”

He trailed off. The warmth drained from his voice.

They passed Eighth Street. His hands tightened on the wheel. The smell of smoke was stronger now, not from chimneys, but something older, deeper.

“Fifty years ago,” he said at last, almost to himself, “right on this street… there was a fire. A bad one. My house, 929 Willow, burned to the ground. We barely got out.”

He swallowed hard.

“My best friend was sleeping over that night. Leo.” The name cracked in his throat. “He didn’t make it out. I was the one who told him to stay.”

A tear slid down his cheek. His eyes flicked to the mirror.

The space ranger sat perfectly still.

Arthur gripped the wheel until his knuckles went white.

“My father tried to go back in,” he whispered. “But the police held him back. I still remember the sound of Leo screaming. I still hear it sometimes, when I’m trying to sleep.”

The bus slowed to a final stop. Arthur wasn’t looking at the mirror anymore. He was staring through the windshield, his breath gone cold.

They were parked in front of 929 Willow.

But it wasn’t the empty lot he remembered.

The house was there, burning. Blackened timbers twisted in the orange light. Smoke curled into the night sky like a living thing.

His childhood home, alive again in its dying moment.

Arthur stumbled out of the driver’s seat. He could see his father carrying him through the front door, his mother sobbing, his own small voice crying out, Leo’s still inside!

A sound snapped him back.

Footsteps. Soft, deliberate.

He turned.

The boy stood in the aisle beside him. The cheap plastic space ranger helmet was warped and melted on one side, fused to blistered flesh. The costume hung in scorched tatters, exposing raw, blackened skin beneath.

Arthur froze.

His voice was a trembling whisper. “Leo?”

The boy didn’t speak. He looked at Arthur for a long, hollow moment, then turned, stepped down onto the asphalt, and walked toward the burning house. He didn’t open the door. He simply stepped into the smoke and vanished.

Arthur ran after him, choking on the cold air.

“Leo! Please, wait!” he shouted. “I’m sorry!”

But the street was empty.

The smoldering ruin was gone, replaced by the same overgrown lot, silent and still beneath the yellow streetlight.

Arthur turned and stared at his friend’s home and sobbed.

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