Kære Emre,

Warm rain all week here, the kind that comes off Bispebjerg sideways and makes the whole 5C smell like wet coats and someone's shawarma.

I have to tell you about seat 4. Behind the cab, left side. Fru Lindegaard sat there every weekday for eleven years — Nordvest to Rigshospitalet, back at three, always with a plastic bag of library books. She called me "chaufføren" even after they took the wheel out. When the line went semi-autonomous she said she trusted the bus because she trusted me, which is not how any of that works, but I let her have it.

She stopped coming in June. Her daughter wrote to the depot. Kind letter.

The bus does not know. It logs her card as "inactive rider, route 5C" and last week it quietly reassigned her seat to the priority pool, because that is what it is for. I understand it. I still stood there at Nørrebrohallen for a moment like an idiot, holding a rail, in a vehicle that steers itself better than I ever did.

Zeynep says I am getting sentimental at thirty-eight. Probably. Kiss the boys.

din bror Y.

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