The Seat That Was Already Reserved
He booked the last seat on the night bus… but the passenger list insisted someone was already sitting there.
The bus station closed after midnight.
Not officially — the lights stayed on, the ticket window remained open — but the world itself seemed to abandon it. Conversations became whispers, footsteps softer, and even engines sounded distant, like memories rather than machines.
Rafi arrived at 12:48 a.m., tired after missing two earlier buses. Only one remained: a long-distance night coach scheduled for 1:10.
Perfect.
He approached the counter. The clerk didn’t look up when speaking.
“Destination?”
“Rahimabad.”
The man typed slowly, then stopped.
“There’s only one seat left.”
Rafi smiled. “Lucky me.”
The printer hesitated before spitting the ticket.
The clerk finally looked at him — longer than necessary.
“Seat 17.”
Rafi took it. “Problem?”
The clerk shook his head quickly. “If someone asks you to move… don’t argue.”
Rafi laughed awkwardly. “Alright…”
The bus was half empty.
Dim blue lights lined the aisle, barely illuminating sleeping passengers. The air smelled of fabric and diesel. He counted the numbers.
14… 15… 16…
Seat 17.
Someone was sitting in it.
A man by the window, wearing a dark coat and cap, face turned toward the glass.
Rafi checked his ticket again.
“Excuse me,” he said politely. “I think this is my seat.”
No response.
The man didn’t move. Didn’t breathe visibly. Didn’t acknowledge him.
Rafi leaned closer. “Bhai?”
The passenger in seat 18 stirred awake.
“Just sit somewhere else,” he muttered irritably. “That seat stays taken.”
Rafi frowned. “But I booked it.”
The man rubbed his eyes. “Everyone books it.”
A chill crept across Rafi’s arms.
He forced a laugh and took seat 16 instead.
The bus departed.
An hour passed.
The highway stretched endlessly into darkness. Most passengers slept. Only the quiet rumble of tires filled the cabin.
Rafi glanced at seat 17 again.
Still motionless.
Too motionless.
Even sleeping people shift. Adjust. Breathe.
This one didn’t.
At 2:03 a.m., the overhead speaker crackled softly — not the driver’s voice, just static… then a faint whisper.
Next stop… not for you.
Rafi looked around.
No one reacted.
He stood slowly and stepped closer to seat 17.
The window reflected both of them.
But the reflection was wrong.
The bus behind them was empty.
No passengers.
No lights.
Just rows of vacant seats stretching into darkness.
His pulse spiked.
He leaned closer to the glass.
The reflection version of himself wasn’t standing.
It was sitting.
In seat 17.
And staring directly at him.
Rafi stumbled backward into the aisle.
The passenger in seat 18 woke again. “What’s wrong with you?”
Rafi pointed with shaking hands. “He— he’s—”
The seat was empty.
Completely empty.
No coat.
No man.
Nothing.
Seat 18 squinted. “You okay? Nobody sits there.”
“But you just said—”
“Everyone books it,” the man interrupted quietly, suddenly fully awake. “Nobody keeps it.”
Rafi’s mouth dried.
“Why?”
The man hesitated… then spoke softly:
“Because the list prints the next passenger before the accident happens.”
Cold flooded his chest. “What accident?”
The bus hit a sudden bump.
The driver cursed loudly.
Headlights appeared ahead — too close — a truck swerving into their lane.
Passengers screamed.
Time stretched unnaturally slow.
Rafi turned instinctively toward seat 17.
His body moved on its own.
He sat down.
Everything stopped.
Silence swallowed the sound of brakes.
The impact never came.
The truck passed through the bus like mist.
The passengers sat frozen mid-panic — unmoving, like paused video.
Across the aisle, the man in seat 18 stared at him with pity.
“You weren’t supposed to sit,” he said gently.
The overhead speaker whispered:
Passenger confirmed.
The lights flickered.
The world snapped back.
The bus continued normally down the empty highway.
No truck.
No screams.
Just sleeping passengers again.
Rafi tried to stand.
He couldn’t.
His hands rested calmly on his knees — not obeying him.
Slowly, he turned toward the window.
His reflection wore the dark coat and cap.
And behind him, in the aisle…
A confused passenger approached, holding a ticket.
“Excuse me,” the stranger said politely.
“I think you’re in my seat.”
About the Creator
shakir hamid
A passionate writer sharing well-researched true stories, real-life events, and thought-provoking content. My work focuses on clarity, depth, and storytelling that keeps readers informed and engaged.
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