Kære Emre,

The line ran itself again today and I sat there like a man being chauffeured through his own life. Officially I am a "service host" now. Unofficially I still call myself chaufføren, and the bus does not argue, though it wants to.

You should hear it. When I ease us into Nørrebro Station and nobody spills their coffee, a soft voice thanks the system for the smooth stop. My stop, Emre. Thirty years of hands and it credits a box under the floor. Zeynep laughs when I tell her. She says let the box have its little dignity, you have yours.

There is an old woman, boards at Bispebjerg every morning with a shopping trolley. The bus has started lowering itself for her before she even lifts her hand — it learned her. That undid me a bit. All this machinery, and somehow it grew a memory kinder than mine.

Fatih started læreplads next week. My son, in a workshop, with real bearings. Baba would have wept.

Come north when the wind drops. I will drive you myself. Don'\''t tell the bus.

din bror Y.

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