Magnus Niskala

Rain fell since afternoon, leaving the city quiet and cold. I sat alone at the back of the bus, burdened by arguments at home, endless schoolwork, and a deep exhaustion I couldn’t explain. I just wanted to escape, far away from everything.

When the bus stopped at a red light, a motorcycle pulled up beside me. A man in a black jacket and full-face helmet looked over. Our eyes met, and his gaze felt strangely calm—as if he saw every bit of sadness I tried to hide.

Without realizing, my hand slipped out the window.

"Hey. Keep your hand inside. Dangerous," he called clearly over the rain.

I pulled it back quickly, embarrassed. "Sorry..."

He chuckled softly. "Don’t say sorry for existing."

The light turned green, and he rode away. I sighed, then noticed a small note on my lap that wasn’t there before. I opened it:

"You looked sad tonight. People don’t always stay broken forever."

Below it: 21:30 — tomorrow night, and an address.

For the first time in ages, I found myself looking forward to tomorrow.

The next night, I came. At exactly 21:28, his motorcycle arrived. He took off his helmet, revealing messy hair and eyes far warmer than I imagined. Magnus Niskala. A name as deep and mysterious as him.

"You came," Magnus said with a faint smile.

I clutched my bag nervously. "I shouldn't have come, right?"

He shook his head, laughing softly. "If you hadn't come, I would have regretted writing that for the rest of my life."

That night, at a lonely bus stop, I met Magnus Niskala—the one who taught me we are never truly alone, and that pain does not last forever.